


brand new shoes, walking blues

by amorremanet



Series: a gnawing feeling leaves you quite unsure [4]
Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: Abusive Relationships, Abusive Sendak (Voltron), Alternate Universe - College/University, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - Punk, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Bad BDSM Etiquette, Bisexual Disaster Lance (Voltron), Collars, Depression, Eating Disorders, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Emotional Manipulation, Emotional/Psychological Abuse, First Meetings, Flashbacks, Friendship, Gaslighting, Gay Disaster Shiro (Voltron), Gen, Heavy Angst, Hurt Shiro (Voltron), M/M, Matt Holt & Shiro (Voltron) Friendship, Mental Health Issues, Minor Hunk/Lance (Voltron), POV Alternating, POV Third Person Limited, Past Keith/Shiro (Voltron), Pining Lance (Voltron), Pining Shiro (Voltron), Pop Culture, Recovery, Shiro (Voltron) Has PTSD - Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder, Substance Abuse, Therapy, Ulaz is Shiro's therapist, Unhealthy Relationships, Victim Blaming, twinganes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-02
Updated: 2019-01-19
Packaged: 2019-10-01 14:44:09
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 54,915
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17246075
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/amorremanet/pseuds/amorremanet
Summary: Lance has admired Shiro from afar since the first time he found Shiro’s old channel on Youtube. He’s spent years enamored with both Shiro’s music, and with his idea of what Shiro might be like, if they could meet in real life—which they won’t, or so Lance thinks.What he’s less enamored with, is Matthew Holt and his insistence that he really does know Shiro. Allegedly, they went to college together, and Matt knows why Shiro’s spent most of 2013 being so weirdly quiet.Allegedly, Matt can arrange a meeting between Lance and his musical idol, but surely, Matt’s just lying for attention, right? There’s no way he knows Takashi Shirogane.Shiro, meanwhile, is eight weeks sober, two weeks out of rehab, and still not used to the fact that he isn’t in Chicago anymore. Recovery’s a difficult process that he’s only just beginning, and he still expects Maurice, his ex, to find him and take him back. Another part of him doesn’t want to give up his old coping mechanisms, thanks.It makes no sense to Shiro, why any of Matt’s other friends would want to meet him—but loneliness isn’t working out for Shiro, either. So, hey, maybe meeting thisLanceguy will be a welcome change of pace.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> —and here I am, back on my bullshit with more self-indulgent backstory fic from the AU of **_[But boys spring infernal](https://archiveofourown.org/works/11717574)_** , my beloved overgrown monster that definitely gave me more than I bargained for.
> 
> As usual, the itch to write this came while I was working on something else—namely, the next part of “ **[my fiction beats the hell out of my truth](https://archiveofourown.org/works/17065163/chapters/40126853)** ,” the Iverson & Shiro backstory piece that I’m working on. I was trying to untangle some stuff about the exact order of events in the next chapter of that one, and my gremlin brain wouldn’t let me make progress on that until I scratched an itch about this piece of backstory, the main action of which happens two days after Shiro first meets Iverson.
> 
> Note: **the fact that no Archive warnings apply here, does not mean that this fic is for everyone. Shiro deals with some intense flashbacks, in this fic, and said flashbacks depict scenes from his abusive relationship with Sendak, as well as the myriad potential triggers referenced in the tags.** These aspects of the fic are mentioned or alluded to throughout the fic, as well (including a scene of Shiro purging in the first chapter).
> 
> As usual, I tried to tag everything that I could think of, so please: heed the tags. Take care of yourselves first and foremost, and if this fic might not be safe reading for you, go read something that makes you happy. ♡
> 
> Title stolen from The White Stripes’ “We Are Going To Be Friends.”

Getting an apartment was supposed to be a miracle cure for so many issues that almost ruined Lance’s freshman year at Kaltenecker U. Finding a place with Hunk and Aiden was supposed to give Lance more room to treat himself to face-masks and bath-bombs, more space to pamper himself like he deserves, and more time to enjoy what he loves without getting yanked out of the shower by a fire drill or because some idiot down the hall microwaved instant ramen without adding water to it first. Moving in with friends was supposed to make everything so much _better_.

Instead, Lance rushes out of their building in a half-baked daze. Rather than getting the best beauty rest in the tristate area, he finds himself sulking over to campus earlier than anyone should ever need to be awake. His dark blue jeans could stand to go through the wash, but they’re the only pair he’s got right now that can remotely pass for clean. He doesn’t take a good look at the top he’s thrown on until he’s in the men’s room, trying to make his hair look vaguely presentable. Beneath his zip-up hoodie sits one of his _Adventure Time_ t-shirts, with fanart of Fionna the Human dolled up as Sailor Moon splashed across the chest.

For all this morning is far from satisfactory, Lance would look downright adorable, if he could get his hair to behave.

…And if the midterm-induced dark rings under his eyes would go away and leave him alone already because he’s done everything that he’s supposed to do, taken proper care of himself and everything, and midterms have actually been done for a couple weeks already, which means he shouldn’t need to look so _tired_.

……And if he’d done his full skincare regimen today and had a decent breakfast, instead of skimping on the former and grabbing a cinnamon roll from Java Hut when he stopped for coffee. (Not that there’s anything wrong with cinnamon rolls, because Lance would never dream of implying such heresy—but the ones at Java Hut have nothing on the ones that Hunk can make. Either way, cinnamon rolls only stave off hunger for so long.)

………And if shambling into the lecture hall early didn’t bring Lance right into the sphere of one, Matthew Holt, that sound tech who Aiden knows through the local music scene, who’s kinda sorta friends with Hunk and Lance.

At the moment, Matt’s down on the stage, perched atop a ladder and fiddling with the projector. He’s got barrettes keeping his honey-and-chestnut-colored hair pinned off his skinny face, and his sneakers are such an assaultive shade of neon green that Lance can see them from his usual seat in the third row. When he tries to get a fix on Matt’s expression, Lance gets an eyeful of stage-lights glaring off in Matt’s owlish, wire-rim glasses. When Matt hops down off his perch, Lance gets slightly luckier, at least in that he can see Matt’s face more clearly. True, the sight of Matt’s energetic smile makes Lance wants to kick something because honestly, where does anyone get off, being so cheerful before nine AM when the sunlight’s as pale and scarce as it is today—but anyway, good for Matt, if he can manage a feat like that.

Grumbling, Lance furrows his brow more deeply than he should—especially when too much grimacing might lead to early-onset wrinkles—and props his chin up in his palm. “Don’t you have, like, a _job_ or something to be at? Y’know, one of those things that responsible adults are supposed to do with themselves?”

“Well, a question like that assumes I’m even respectable.”

“I’m not assuming anything, jackass,” Lance says without any vitriol (not least because that would require energy). “You’re twenty-two. You aren’t in grad school or inventing the next big app. Unless you’re mooching off your parents, you have a _job_ , right?”

Granted, Matt’s mom is a psychiatrist or something. His dad has tenure in the computer engineering department. Between the two of them, there’s a mile-long list of big deal publications, patents, conference presentations, invited talks, and so on. Dr. Colleen Holt’s even given a TED Talk and it’s supposed to be pretty good (though Lance has yet to make it past the first two minutes). Now that he thinks about it, the Holt parents might actually have enough money for Matt to mooch off of them for the rest of his earthly life.

Lance doesn’t know for sure, though—and right now, he can’t focus on picking apart the available evidence. Or on discerning whether or not there’s any evidence for him to pick apart. But Lance _could_ do that, if he wanted to. He’s just really busy. Mostly with wrinkling his nose when he catches Matt’s eyes glimmering, while he smirks a few shades too playfully for this hour of the morning.

“Maybe I’m secretly a fae,” he says, looking up from the computer and waggling his eyebrows. “Maybe my job is being wherever you are and making you wonder what my job is, just so you get wound up.”

“That sounds like the dumbest job ever—”

“I never said it was a _good_ job. Just that it’s _my_ job.”

Slumping more heavily on the table, Lance sighs. “Is that how you got in here in the first place? Faerie magic?”

Matt answers by jangling a cumbersome ring of keys. When that only makes Lance shrug, he wrinkles his nose. “Dr. Nalquod needed the projector set up. Did you honestly not know I work for campus IT?”

“Well, I know that _now_ , sure.”

Snorting, Matt shakes his head. “Let’s try discussing something else before I lose any respect for you—”

“Who said you even _have_ respect for me?”

“You and Hunk and Aiden doing anything fun this weekend?”

“Well, Aiden’s probably doing his boyfriend, so yeah. _He’ll_ be having fun.” Since no one but Matt’s around to judge him for it, Lance flops onto the table and pillows his head on his forearms. “I swear to God, man. I’m happy for them and all? But getting woken up before my alarm because Aiden’s getting pounded again and can’t come without trying to get us another noise complaint from the neighbors?”

“Yikes. That’s rough, buddy.”

“And I don’t see _nearly_ enough condoms for all the fucking going on—”

“I mean, if they’re clean and monogamous, though? Is that really an issue, then?”

“Pretty sure that some trans dudes can still get pregnant, so? Yeah? Seems like an issue.” As a thought smacks into him, Lance huffs. “But Aiden was screaming about, ‘God, fill me up with your babies, breed me like a bitch’ this morning, so hey, maybe they’re _trying_ for something like that. What the fuck do I know.”

“More about proper skincare and hair products than anybody else I know.”

“That’s nice. Thanks, man.”

“Anyway, my roommates are out of town this weekend.” Matt shrugs, gives Lance a genuine smile. “Y’know, if you and Hunk need to chill somewhere quiet that doesn’t stink like sex. Or need a quiet place to work.”

“Thanks.” With a deep inhale, Lance makes himself sit upright again. He’d rather not, but his back’s gonna thank him for caring about his posture later. “Right now, I dunno what we’re doing. I kinda want to see _The Dark World_ again—”

“Didn’t Hunk say that movie sucked?”

“I mean? Yes and no?”

“Pretty sure everyone else I know has said it sucked, too.”

“Look, of course it’s not as good as the first _Thor_ movie. Marvel wouldn’t let Kenneth Branagh have his way, so he quit, so there’s a big drop in quality. And Hunk’s all mad that Christopher Eccleston didn’t end up doing more—”

“Which is pretty fair. I mean, he’s kind of a stone cold fox. David Tennant and Matt Smith are great, but Nine is the Doctor _I’d_ most wanna get in bed with—”

“But why is Hunk’s crush on Nine more valid than my thing for _Loki_?” Lance pouts. In all likelihood, he looks like some stupid brat who didn’t get a hippopotamus for Christmas, but caring about that sounds like more effort than Lance feels like putting into anything. “I’m not saying that _The Dark World_ is _good_ , okay? By any definition of that word. But Tom Hiddleston spends most of his screen-time looking like he rolled out of a rock star gutter and right into a _Behind the Music_ special, and holy deep-fried cheese-sticks, Batman.”

By way of emphasizing his point, Lance groans as if Loki is balls deep inside of him and making Lance come so hard that he’ll never want to get with anybody else again. Except for Hunk, probably. Maybe. If Hunk would ever want Lance in return, which will definitely never happen because Hunk deserves the entire universe on a plate. Hunk deserves vacations in Paris and Naples, diamond rings and designer jeans and all the guac he wants on his burrito bowls, dining at the Ritz at nine precisely with someone who looks like Freddie Mercury and can almost approximate his vocal range—but Lance, at best, is like some cool, vintage record-player that got sold for super-cheap at someone’s yard sale.

As if he can tell that Lance needs someone to derail this train of thought, Matt laughs. “Look, this might be a kinda shitty thing that I’m about to say—”

“Can’t be any worse than having my skin routine interrupted—”

“But I am _so_ glad that the other pervy Loki fancier in my life hasn’t seen the movie yet.”

“Whoever it is,” Lance tells him, lifting his chin like Dr. Nalquod’s pompous piece of shit TA, “they can’t _possibly_ be more into him than me.”

“I dunno about that.” Matt pauses to let the projection screen come down, then slips back into smirking like he didn’t miss a beat. “Look, I know you’d do just about anything with Loki—”

“He could have me any goddamn way he wants me, just so long as—”

“But, man, you don’t even wanna know half of the stuff that Shiro has _actually done_. Like, in real life. Without any kind of magic or—”

“Oh, my God, _again_ with the—why are you still like—are you fucking—” Groaning so loudly that the rest of the building probably hears him, Lance scowls. The muscles in his face tingle in protest—but dammit, this is _serious_. “Will you change the fucking _record_ already?”

Vacant as a moldy cabbage, Matt blinks at Lance. “What? You think you’re the number one perviest Loki fancier in my life?”

“No, you jerk, like—what’d I ever do—why are you so—”

“So devilishly charming? Well, I don’t know—”

“That’s not what I’m saying! You know damn well—”

“—I mean, I guess I probably get it from my Mom? She used to be a total heartbreaker—”

“Come on, Matt!” Thumping his fist on the desk, Lance hopes his glare looks like he means business. “How many times are you gonna yank my fucking chain, okay? There is _no way in Hell_ that you actually know Shiro.”

Not that Lance knows Shiro either, except as the beautiful singer-songwriter on Youtube with the golden voice and the sad gray eyes that gleam like gunmetal. He’s from Chicago by way of Texas, he’s a Pisces and a Trekkie, and he’s the reason that Lance didn’t completely die when his first boyfriend dumped him via text message. His jawline could probably cut diamonds and in every video he posts online, Shiro’s lips always look so hopelessly kissable. He hasn’t posted anything new since mid-September, and before that, he’d gone radio silent since early April. He didn’t say anything about what had happened when he did, but he posted two new videos: an original song that could’ve been somebody’s suicide note—maybe he’d lost a friend or boyfriend or something like that recently—and a cover whose title made Lance’s breath hitch in his throat.

Even seeing the words _“Somebody That I Used To Know (Gotye & Kimbra cover),” _Lance wasn’t ready. Not for any of that video. Shiro wasn’t sitting in the same room as usual. The walls were painted a pale, painfully respectable shade of yellow, and Lance couldn’t see any of Shiro’s posters hanging up behind him. Dimly, Lance had wondered if Shiro was in a motel somewhere. Wherever he was, though, he looked marginally better than he had in April—at least, he looked less likely to pass out in the middle of a song—but those gray eyes still looked haunted. Miserable. Like they were staring down the barrel of a gun, instead of being the gun themselves. Then, out of nowhere, Shiro kicked Lance in the emotional stomach:

“Anyway, this cover is for Blue-Sharpshooter,” he said, idly tuning up his six-string. “He’s been in my comments for a while, and I guess he went through a pretty rough breakup recent—well, it’s not so recently anymore? But it was when he asked if I could do this song, and… Just to let y’all out there know, I do really appreciate the support so, _so_ much, even if I can’t get back to every comment all the time, so…”

Clearing his throat, Shiro strummed his instrument as though he hadn’t completely shattered Lance’s world. He let slip a sigh—and then, before Lance knew which way was up, Shiro was picking out a painfully familiar tune. He winced, inhaling a touch too deeply and too sharply, like every aching second, he had to fight to stay alive. Yet, Shiro’s voice came out clear and gorgeous as ever when he sang, _“Now and then, I think of when we were together. Like when you said you felt so happy, you could die.…”_

Ever since Shiro posted that cover, Lance has watched it at least a couple times a week. He even had Hunk do the thing to get the audio file and put it on his mp3 player. Something’s off about Shiro’s performance, Lance can’t deny that. Sure, the feeling’s there, but throughout the song, Shiro sounds more guilty than he does hurt—but still: he recorded that _for Lance_. He read _Lance’s_ comments on his videos and he put up a cover entirely to make _Lance_ feel better after getting so unceremoniously dumped. For all that’s worth, Shiro could sing the number like an upbeat, happy love song, and Lance would so not mind at all.

Despite that video, though, Lance has the decency to admit that he’s never met Shiro and in all likelihood, he never will. He wishes that he knew who’d made Shiro’s voice strain with too much feeling through the first chorus— _“But you didn’t have to cut me off, make out like it never happened and that we were nothing”_ —because if Lance had that kind of inkling, then he’d chew them out so hard, they’d never know what hit them. He wishes that he knew who’d cut Shiro so deeply that he almost didn’t finish the song—God, the way he sounded on that last round of, _“And I don’t even need your love, but you treat me like a stranger and it feels so rough”_ —and he wishes that he could make Shiro feel better, even the slightest bit.

Lance can’t do anything like that, though. Because he doesn’t actually know his Youtube idol, and he owns this fact—something that nobody can say for Matthew Holt. Even now, getting called out like Lance is doing to him, Matt tilts his head like he’s inspecting some piece of nonsensical hipster art that makes no sense as an installation at MoCA, down in New York.

Staring over the rims of his glasses, Matt huffs. “Hand to God, Lance: I honestly went to college with Shiro in Chicago. He’s my friend. I would not yank your chain about that, nor have I ever done so.”

“Well, I say, ‘Pics or it didn’t happen,’ Holt.” Pouting, Lance folds his arms over his chest. “Because until you prove it? I say that you’re a dirty little liar.”

Matt heaves a sigh in the same way he does while arguing with the sound equipment for a show at Moonstruck. As he pushes back from the desk, he doesn’t take his eyes off Lance—which is, frankly, pretty creepy, and it turns Lance’s stomach harder than a fucking tilt-a-whirl, and he balls his skinny fingers up in his sweatshirt sleeve, like that will actually protect him if Matt decides to try something. (Which, in turn, is stupid because even with his heart put into any rumble that he tried to start, Matt’s only slightly less of a noodle-boy than Lance himself, and he probably couldn’t hurt a fly if he ever wanted to.…… Probably.)

Rather than actualizing any of the worst possible scenarios that rapid-fire flare up in and flash through Lance’s imagination, Matt simply perches on the edge of Dr. Nalquod’s desk. Humming idly, he starts tapping away on his phone.

Lance scrunches up his face but can’t make heads or tails of… whatever Matt thinks he’s doing. “…You know that paying someone to murder me is totally illegal, right?”

“It’s also wicked expensive and I’d feel bad about it, so…” Matt shrugs. “What time do you get out of class today? And are you doing anything?”

“A little after four, and no. Do I even _want_ to know why you suddenly give two shits?”

“Because if a certain someone’s feeling up to it? Then I can do you one way better than, ‘Pics or it didn’t happen.’” Shoving his phone back in his pocket, Matt looks Lance dead in the eye. “I’ll keep you posted about what Shiro and his brother say. Do not make any other plans.”

Maybe it’s rude, but Lance rolls his eyes regardless. “Yeah, right, sure. I’ll be waiting with flipping bells on, dude.”

  


* * *

  


_“I’m gonna bribe the officials!”_

Graceful as a rhinoceros on PCP, a familiar, vindictive yowl crashes into Shiro’s dozing.

_“I’m gonna kill all the judges!”_

He flinches at John Darnielle’s voice, curling up half-fetal and tugging his cocoon of blankets around himself more tightly.

_“It’s gonna take you people years—”_

Rubbing at his cheek, Shiro shivers. Or maybe shudders. Hard to tell. Somewhere, though, he picks out the nerve-grating sound of something vibrating against a table.

_“—to recover from all of the damage!”_

Jesus, right. His alarm. He makes himself inhale deeply, and God help him, Shiro knows that he should turn the damn thing off? If nothing else, Ryou’s gonna get annoyed if Shiro lets it keep playing because Ryou inexplicably hates The Mountain Goats—

_“Our mother has been absent! Ever since we founded Rome!”_

—and yet, all Shiro makes himself do is whine and cuddle closer to Usa-chan, the stuffed black bunny that Naoko made him for his fourth birthday. She’s crafty like that, Aunt Satomi’s short, butch wife, who at the time was technically not her wife, but only because California wasn’t even remotely debating marriage equality in 1994.

_“But there’s gonna be a party when the wolf comes home!”_

Mornings are stupid. Getting out of bed is _stupid_ —and worse than that, it’s going to be _cold_. Underneath two comforters, an old fleece that belonged to Obaasan before she died, and the black-and-purple afghan that Naoko crocheted for him when he went to college, Shiro’s wearing three t-shirts (one of them long-sleeved), a beat-up flannel, and the warmest hoodie that he owns. Despite this, and even though Ryou has the heat on, Shiro’s freezing. Thanks to how badly he’s wrecked himself, cold is so overwhelming that Shiro might as well be on an Antarctic research base with Kurt Russell and Keith David, getting hunted down by some parasitic alien that wants to assimilate the lot of them.

Except Shiro isn’t in John Carpenter’s _The Thing_. As his alarm plays itself out, he knows: it’s Thursday morning and he’s in Keaton, Massachusetts. The spare room of his brother’s apartment. Huddled in a blanket-burrito like an absolute idiot and clinging to his old stuffed bunny like he’s got no idea what’s going to happen if he doesn’t pry himself off the mattress and shamble through the motions like a functional human person.

Like the Kashi who Ryou wishes he was, someone who eats breakfast without suffering, doesn’t need someone to babysit him after meals so he won’t go stick his fingers down his throat, and cares one way or another whether he lives or dies.

Like someone who didn’t jolt out of five different nightmares, sneak into the living room, and check the windows, aching with exhaustion but unable to sleep until he made sure that the locks hadn’t been broken, that Maurice hadn’t painstakingly hunted his _sweet boy_ down and come out here from Chicago with a mind to reclaim him—as if the universe wants Shiro to be Maurice’s beautiful monster after all. As if Shiro somehow called such a terrible fate down on his own head with anything he shared at the AA meeting the other night.

Squeezing bony fingers around Usa-chan’s plush torso, Shiro shakes his head. Tries to dismiss those thoughts, like Ulaz has been telling him in their twice-weekly sessions. Shiro didn’t name Maurice in anything he said. He only barely mentioned that he’d left Chicago because of a troublesome ex-lover. He probably said more about Keith, and the most that Shiro spit out there was, _“I lost somebody else I was in love with. I think he’s in New York, but I don’t know and anyway, he doesn’t want to see me. After everything I put him through, he’s better off. He’s good, and strong, and kind, and I just hope he’s happy.”_

As he fiddles with one of Usa-chan’s yarn-and-stuffing ears, Shiro reminds himself how he only confessed to that Cliff’s Notes version of his sins because his new friend with the missing eye gently needled him over coffee-talk. Surely, he _can’t_ have tripped over any old rules about speaking of the Devil and making him appear, but—

_Brrzzt! Brrzzzt!_

—Shiro flinches as his phone starts vibrating again, and Jesus God, why can’t he just—

_“I’m gonna bribe the officials!”_

A soft groan claws its way out of Shiro as the alarm starts up again.

_“I’m gonna kill all the judges!”_

Whining into his pillows, he fumbles around the nightstand until he finds the phone. He sighs, switches off the alarm—and about chokes at the sight of an old photo from Chicago.

Not that it’s a _bad_ photo? But it’s one of him and Keith, from the day he got his GED scores and found out that he’d be eligible for actual credits at certain schools. If Shiro had been drunk when he set this as his lock screen, then maybe he’d understand whatever masochistic impulses led him here. As it stands, he’s eight weeks sober and he can only blame restlessness for this bad life-choice and his ensuing misery.

Dimly, Shiro still can’t believe Maurice allowed him to keep the picture, considering how nice it is and the fact that Keith is in it. Leaning together, they sit outside, beneath a tree in the park they liked nearby their old apartment. Keith leans against Shiro’s chest, head tilted toward his neck. Both of them smile as if nothing has gone or ever will go wrong for them in the best of all possible worlds—and as if Keith doesn’t hate holding still for pictures.… And as if they have nothing to worry about because, as far as those past versions of them know, Shiro has immaculate self-control and will never break the promise that he made Maurice or nearly ruin Keith’s life by falling in love with him like an anvil chained around his ankles.

Without his consent, Shiro’s hand trembles around his phone. His eyes sting, itch. Once the screen fades out to black, he clicks the home button, pulling the picture back up. Which he should regret, given the throbbing empty space in his chest—the black hole where his heart should be and how much it _hurts_ , the longer he stares at the photo—but Shiro can’t look away. Can’t shove his phone in his pocket. Can’t hide or avoid this thing it pains him to drink in because after what he did to Keith, Shiro _deserves_ to feel so low as this. He can’t do anything that might let him off easier.

Not until his vision blurs, tears spill onto his cheeks, and shame rushes through him, hot and sick and heavy, flaring up, and twisting like a tornado, and screaming one thought alone, clear as day: _Up. Now. Before Ryou notices. Go get your toothbrush and gag yourself with it until whatever broken thing comes out._

Shiro’s not supposed to want that—but with a grunt, he shoves himself up. He stretches out his back. Mercifully, the door doesn’t creak and none of the floorboards threaten to expose what Shiro thinks he’s doing. If he shuffles quietly enough, then he can get away with this. Can sneak right past Ryou’s bedroom and into the bathroom, and once he’s there, Shiro can purge for the first time in months. Here’s hoping the noise won’t wake Ryou up because neither of them needs to deal with that. Ryou so badly wants to help—he wants to be here for Shiro, and he wants to make his brother better—but the fact is that Ryou doesn’t understand how much Shiro _needs_ this.

Still, he’s trying so hard, Ryou is. He should get _something_ that he wants from the whole process. Swishing past the coffee-table, Shiro keeps his head down and silently promises that he won’t make himself vomit ever again after this one last time. Because purging hurts him—in both the short and long terms—and it scares his brother when Shiro relies on this so much, which Ryou doesn’t deserve. He deserves a brother who can sleep through the night and doesn’t screw up everything by existing. But one more time—one more round of purging—that’s all Shiro needs, and then he’ll get himself together without this, without needing to make himself sick. He hasn’t made a sound yet, so he should be in the clear—

“Morning, Kashi.”

Shiro freezes, only a few paces shy of his destination. “Hey, Ryou.”

“Nice to see you up and about.”

“What else do you do in the morning?”

“Was almost thinking I’d need to come get you up.”

“Well, you don’t.… Obviously.… Since I’m awake.”

Ryou makes a throaty sound that Shiro can’t decipher. “What’re you doing?”

“Nothing.”

“And that nothing happens to be in the bathroom?”

“I wanna take a shower.” Inhaling deeply, Shiro hugs himself. Hunches his shoulders and stares at his feet. Forces himself to just keep breathing. “I didn’t get one yesterday.… Even if Ulaz doesn’t call me out on it later? I know I didn’t. And I feel gross for it.”

Down in his hoodie’s pockets, his phone and Usa-chan seem to weigh ten-thousand pounds. Guilt makes everything heavier. Knowing what he’s doing, knowing what he wants to do, knowing what Ryou’s done for him, how he never should’ve needed to beg the way he did to make Shiro go to rehab, how Shiro shouldn’t have snarked over every question during the intake interview and made Ryou guide him through it—Shiro’s hand trembles, clinging to the loose fabric around his elbow. God, he can do this, can’t he? Or is the other shoe going to drop on his head like a _Looney Tunes_ grand piano?

Behind Shiro, Ryou gives a pensive hum. Shiro whips around before he can think to stop himself. He sets his jaw, lifts his head, and hopes to God that his brother can’t smell any of the lies he means to tell. Whatever it takes, however much he needs to wheedle through this, Shiro only needs to get into the bathroom so he can have this _one last purge_ , get it out of his system, and work on being more like the Kashi who Ryou wishes he were. He can do this; he _needs_ to do this.

Over on the other side of the living room, holding a mug of coffee and watching Shiro like he’s underneath a microscope, Ryou edges out of the kitchen. He hasn’t put on his work clothes yet, a privilege that comes from being one of Dr. Iverson’s favorite TAs (and from the fact that, despite certain lies that Shiro told Maurice, Ryou isn’t teaching any classes, this semester). Rather than one of his conservative button-ups, an old t-shirt clings to and wrinkles around his round, chunky midsection, that vintage _Star Wars_ poster stretching tight because there’s not enough shirt for Ryou’s belly. It’s harder to tell how his black boxers fit him, but Shiro can see more tawny skin than fabric. In the dim light of morning, he spots the fine black hairs on Ryou’s thighs, which squish together as Ryou moves.

Swallowing thickly, Shiro can’t deny the truth: Ryou’s definitely put on weight since talking Shiro into getting help. Not so much that nothing fits him anymore—at least, his shirt isn’t riding up on him or exposing any of his belly-chub—but Ryou might’ve even gained a few pounds in the two weeks since Shiro moved into the spare bedroom. Ryou wasn’t small beforehand, either. He’s been the chubby twin since they were thirteen, and God, _Shiro_ is the one who’s supposed to be gaining weight. He’s the one who whittled himself so thin that he can’t get warm on his own, and that’s a bad thing, or so says everybody else who wants Shiro to put weight on, as if they really know what’s best for him—

Cringing, Shiro shakes his head. It doesn’t dismiss the thoughts, not entirely. But at least Shiro keeps his face neutral under the heat of Ryou’s scrutiny. He doesn’t blush, he doesn’t falter, he doesn’t show that Ryou’s getting to him and making his heartbeat race like a damn stampede.

Whether this ploy works or not, Ryou nods. “Can you be quick about it? I want to make sure you get breakfast before I head to campus.”

Shiro agrees to that. He even keeps his promise, rushing through a scalding hot shower, no matter how much unseen filth he needs to scrub off. What does it even matter? He’ll never be completely clean, not really, so who cares if he goes through the full routine?

When he’s finished, though, Shiro leaves the water running. He grabs his toothbrush out of the cup by the sink, but leaves the shiny, black plastic cover around its head. Today, Shiro doesn’t need to deal with getting vomit out of bristles, much less with the high chance of missing something and clueing Ryou in to what he’s done. What he’s planning to do. What he damned well _needs_ to do—doesn’t he?

For a moment, Shiro pauses. Braces himself on the counter. He wipes enough steam off the mirror to make out his reflection, and as those mausoleum-gray eyes blink back at him, guilt clenches tight around Shiro’s lungs. Maybe, as Keith told him, there’s a reason why no one else likes it when Shiro makes himself vomit. Because he’s hurting himself, allegedly, and they object to this on some kind of principle, out of some love or belief that Shiro hasn’t deserved since God knows when. His hands tremble. His arms wobble like they could give out, like they very badly want to. If Shiro hadn’t cut his nails yesterday—the better to play his guitar with, always—they’d be digging hard into his palm.

Which settles the matter. Without something sharp attached, Shiro barely feels the pressure behind his fingertips. He barely feels anything, not even with his desperate fists and bony wrists visibly shaking like they are. He heaves a deep breath. Ruffled his free hand over his hair. One last time—he’ll only do this _one. last. time_.

Dropping to his knees before the toilet, Shiro doesn’t need to think; the motions come to him as naturally as salmon swim to their spawning grounds. In all likelihood, Shiro ought to fear how simple he finds this process: shoving the toothbrush down his throat, tripping his gag reflex, fighting himself not to choke back when the vomit rushes up. He should worry about how much lighter his chest feels afterward, once he’s gone through three rounds of making himself sick, and about how much more easily he breathes as he flushes away the proof and, groaning, pries himself off the tile floor.

As he brushes his teeth, scouring his mouth of any lingering evidence, Shiro wonders if Ryou heard anything over the shower’s pitter-patter din. He shouldn’t have—but back in Chicago, Keith was too sharp for Shiro’s ploys. Ryou’s far from stupid or unobservant. He could’ve heard something. If Shiro’s been in here too long, then Ryou could figure out what his Kashi did—and that thought makes a hot, shameful something writhe through Shiro’s insides. God, if only he had enough time to vomit up anything he might’ve missed.

It was the same story with Maurice. Even if he couldn’t pick out the sounds of his _sweet boy_ throwing up, he could almost always tell what Shiro had done to himself. The frequency with which Maurice was right defied all logic and common sense, especially once he took Shiro uptown. Yet, Shiro never found any cameras hidden in the bathrooms at Maurice’s townhouse. While living with him, Shiro only purged while Maurice and Haxus were at the hospital and office respectively, and in spite of that—in spite of all the ways that Shiro covered his tracks—Maurice could guess, with near-perfect accuracy, that Shiro had once more indulged in the alleged self-abuse that Maurice so badly wanted him to stop.

A jerk of the head doesn’t help Shiro, now. Doesn’t banish these thoughts of his ex to an emotional nuclear waste disposal, where they belong. Doesn’t get him back to the world of the living.

Swallowing a sigh, he loops a towel around his waist because, aside from his hoodie, any clean clothes are waiting in his bedroom. He scampers, trying not to make Ryou look at his body. Shiro’s shoulders look too big for him. His vertebra and hipbones strain his skin. As he throws on three shirts, Shiro tries not to count the visible ribs. Tries to ignore the way his stomach’s gone taut and sunken in. Tries to tune out the memory of Maurice, how he showed up to the old apartment this past April, how he slipped his huge, heavy hands underneath Shiro’s clothes and got them around Shiro’s waist without much difficulty.

 _“Sweet boy, please listen to me,”_ he whispered against the skin of Shiro’s forehead, nosing at Shiro’s floppy bangs. By way of emphasizing his point, Maurice squeezed Shiro’s midsection. _“You have gotten yourself in so many bad ways before—but never_ ** _this_** _bad—”_

 _“I’m fine.”_ Which was at least seventeen shades of untruth. _“I’m almost done.… I had a goal in mind—”_

_“A worrisome goal—”_

_“_ ** _My_** _goal.”_ Squirming, Shiro fought in vain to tug free. Even that ghost of a struggle made his body feel so much heavier, a ten-ton, leaden deadweight that would drown anybody dumb enough to love him. _“And I’m almost done. Almost there. Endgame is—it’s close, okay?”_

_“But is it, really?”_

_“I…”_ Shiro shuddered on the inhale. _“Maurice, it’s not… You don’t need—I mean, I don’t… This isn’t what you…”_

Maurice arched the thick, black brow over his glass eye. Without saying anything—much less setting a Scene or negotiating how it might play out—he dared Shiro to keep lying to him. The custom-made black leather collar was a hangman’s noose, and Maurice’s hold on his waist felt like a straitjacket. As if he had no idea what he was doing, Maurice trembled as if genuinely afraid and brushed his thumbs all over his sweet boy’s stomach. Kneading Shiro’s flesh, Maurice watched closely, no doubt searching for any blush, any flinch, any sign of weakness on Shiro’s part. The point he wanted to make was that, with his barely twenty-five-inch waist, Shiro had gotten far too thin. Yet, all that Shiro could focus on—

 _“I know, okay?”_ Clamping his eyes shut, ducking his chin, Shiro let his breath out in a hiss. _“I_ ** _know_** _there’s pudge I haven’t lost yet. You_ ** _don’t_** _need to remind me—”_

_“How could you have pudge? There’s hardly anything at all. You—”_

_“I know I drink too much, Maurice. I know how much you hate it—”_

_“That, I do. But not for the reasons that you seem intent on ascribing to me—”_

_“I know the alcohol has extra calories that I don’t need. And I know it’s keeping me stuck with these last ten pounds—”_

_“Sweet boy, you…”_ Heaving a sigh from somewhere deep inside him, Maurice slouched enough to nudge his forehead into Shiro’s. When he nuzzled, Shiro couldn’t tell if Maurice meant to convey concern or put a scent-mark on what he’d decided to claim as _his_ and his alone. _“Considering the state you’re in, sweet boy? Losing ten pounds more could kill you.”_

Shiro nodded. _“I’d die on my own terms, at least.”_

This was where Maurice should have pointed out that he hadn’t given Shiro permission to die. If shaving off the last ten pounds did him in before he found perfection, Shiro wouldn’t have been dying on Maurice’s terms, which Maurice could not allow to stand, not even as the ghost of a theory.

Instead, he rubbed his forehead along Shiro’s and muttered, _“You would, however, still be dead.”_

Shiro gulped, trying not to get lost in the way his heart fluttered. Or in the way his thoughts raced without making themselves comprehensible. Or in the way that his head wanted to spin clean off his shoulders while his lungs refused to let him breathe. Except he must’ve gotten _some_ air, because no matter how much the floorboards threatened to tug themselves out from under him—no matter how much his body threatened to give up on staying conscious—Shiro managed to avoid passing out.

It would’ve been better if Maurice had growled, low and dangerous, right up in Shiro’s ear. It would’ve been easier if Maurice had released Shiro, shoved two of his thick fingers into the O-ring, and yanked so hard that Shiro’s neck felt stiff for at least the next few days. Everything would have made more sense if Maurice had curled one of his hands around Shiro’s neck and pressed his thumb in hard, bearing down on Shiro’s windpipe, reminding him that he could only sing—that he could only breathe—according to Maurice’s whims.

Instead, he curled his arm around Shiro’s back, his caress warm and feather-light and uncharacteristically soft. He tugged Shiro close to him, held Shiro to his chest as if terrified of breaking him. But unlike all the times he’d grabbed Shiro before, Maurice cradled his _sweet boy_ without smothering him, like Shiro could wriggle loose and pull away if he’d really wanted to.

Biting his lip, Shiro hunched his shoulders and balled his bony fingers up in the lapel of Maurice’s custom-tailored charcoal gray suit. God, Shiro couldn’t do this. Couldn’t let himself take whatever Maurice was selling. He needed to be here when Keith got back from work, needed to talk to him, needed to let Keith know that he’d been weak and fallen in love with Keith and he didn’t expect anything because Keith deserved infinitely better than a simpering, pretty boy burnout who wasn’t strong enough to stay afloat without dragging Keith down with him, but please, he needed to know how Keith felt, had to know that Keith really understood the depths that Shiro—

 _“Please, sweet boy.”_ Maurice splayed a hand over the small of Shiro’s back. When Shiro froze, denying him even the softest gasp, Maurice huffed. _“Whatever mistakes you’ve made—however you feel that I have hurt you—I have only ever had your best interests at heart—”_

 _“Yeah. Of course.”_ Shiro’s eyes stung, tears spilled onto his cheeks, and he blushed, scarlet with shame. _“I must’ve missed all that concern when you only_ ** _almost_** _broke my wrist.”_

 _“Would you condemn me for simply not hearing when you used your safe-word?”_ Delicately cupping his other hand around Shiro’s cheek, Maurice didn’t let him look away. _“Whatever you wish to believe, Takashi, you are precious to me. You mean so much to me that I find it terrifying.”_ He nudged their foreheads together one more time, as if sealing the deal on a spell. _“I love you, my sweet boy. If you wish to cast me aside so monstrously, then at least do me one final kindness.”_

Despite every fiber of his being that screamed in protest, Shiro met Maurice’s eye. _“Oh, yeah? What’s that, then?”_

 _“Come with me,”_ Maurice said, and kissed Shiro’s forehead. _“Let me take you to get help.”_

Shiro should have known better. He should have considered precedent, the way Maurice did when working on a case. He should have remembered Maurice’s track-record, because even though Shiro isn’t psychic, everything Maurice had done before would’ve told him how trusting any of this alleged kindness would play out.

But he clung to Maurice’s suit more tightly. He folded into the embrace and buried his face against Maurice’s broad, muscular chest. Choking down a sob, Shiro nodded, tried to ignore the black hole in the pit of his stomach, the endless, aching void that he could numb with Vicodin, drown in tequila, and overpower by self-starvation, but that nothing ever took away from him. Even if Maurice meant this offer genuinely, there wasn’t any hope for his sweet boy; Shiro had only spent his entire life so far spiralling and getting worse. But Maurice could keep the world safe from him, Haxus could keep Shiro too medicated to hurt anybody, and as for Keith—

—Shiro yanks both hands through his wet hair. He glares at his reflection, who has his bare feet planted on the hardwood but wobbles anyway, thanks to how badly Shiro’s tearing up.

Maurice is not here with him, though. Maurice should have no idea where Shiro’s gotten off to. It’s November 14th, and that fateful day in April is seven months behind him. His name is Takashi Shirogane. He’s in the spare bedroom of his brother’s apartment in Keaton, Massachusetts. His jeans billow around his thighs as he bolts toward the kitchen, toward _Ryou_. Denim rustles against more denim, and Shiro staggers like a punch-drunk Bambi, and Keith is better off without him, just like he’s better off without Maurice. All these things, they’re what’s real. Not the ghosts of memories that Shiro’s brain pulls up at the worst, most inconvenient times, for no apparent reason beyond tormenting him.

Unfortunately, the coffee-table’s real, too. So is the way its edge thwacks into Shiro’s shins.

Wincing, he can’t hold back a groan. He crumples, knees hitting the table next. But Ryou’s by his side in a flash, asking what happened and how he’s feeling, gingerly helping Shiro back up as if he actually believes there’s any point to any of this. Nobody with a heart would blame Ryou for taking care of himself and leaving Shiro to his own devices.

“Fuck Maurice,” Shiro mutters, blinking out more tears. “I’m _never_ gonna get away from him.”

“You already did, Kashi.”

“Then why doesn’t it _feel_ that way?”

“It will, okay? I don’t know when, but…” Ryou’s eyes gleam as he rubs at Shiro’s shoulder, but unlike Shiro, he doesn’t start crying because Ryou can control himself. Peering at his little brother’s face, Shiro can’t tell what Ryou knows or doesn’t—but it doesn’t take a genius to recognize how fake his smile is. “Come on. Let’s get you something to eat.”

Eating sounds like the second-to-last thing that Shiro wants to do, right now. Fortunately for Ryou, the absolute last thing that Shiro wants to do right now, is give his brother any further cause for worry. Which means that Shiro has to suck it up and cooperate about food like someone who isn’t broken and doesn’t need to be dragged, practically kicking and screaming, to something so simple as eating breakfast. Nothing should be complicated about it, except for everything that is—but Shiro’s already purged before nine in the morning. He needs to get through a meal so Ryou won’t worry about him quite as much.

Unfortunately, practically everything in the kitchen sounds terrible. Instant oatmeal, Shiro could probably choke down any other morning. Today, just hearing the word makes him feel so nauseated, he takes the seat that’s closest to the trash can. In case he needs to be sick for real, he’ll be right by something that can help him.

Hoping that Ryou’s right— _“Maybe you’ll think better if you get a little something down first, something more than coffee, I mean”_ —Shiro takes a pear. He doesn’t fight when Ryou rolls an orange across the table because, if nothing else, peeling the stupid thing might let Shiro vent some of the frustration scratching at the inside of his chest, building up like Shiro’s made of Diet Coke and pop rocks. If he’d hurry up and explode, then that’d be one thing, and Shiro wants to think he’d handle it more or less all right. He wouldn’t have that threat hanging over his head anymore, at least.

He’s five slow, ponderous bites into the pear and feeling no better when his phone _ding!_ s with a text from Matt: _[hey so, my friend who wants to meet shiro? he’s getting on my nerves about it, you guys have any plans today?]_

Before Shiro can let himself think too hard, he fires back, _[I can do something after therapy, if he’s fine with that]_

Shiro’s already overturned his usual way of doing things by taking that Mitch guy’s number on Tuesday night. The way that he’s done things so far hasn’t worked for Shiro. Maybe he’ll only lead Matt’s one friend to ruin in the end, or maybe he’ll disappoint the poor guy and he’ll regret ever having met Shiro. Like Ulaz told Shiro while talking him into going to the AA meeting where Shiro wound up meeting Mitch: there is no way to know how things will play out, for better or worse or neither, until Shiro takes a chance.

 _Besides_ , Shiro muses as he crunches into his pear again, _bad things will definitely happen if I let myself get restless._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As mentioned in the chapter, the song that Shiro did a cover of for Lance was Gotye and Kimbra’s “ **[Somebody That I Used To Know](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=8UVNT4wvIGY)** ,” and Lance wanted to hear Shiro sing it because of a shitty ex-boyfriend who dumped Lance via text message. As kind of implied around, Shiro had very different emotional associations with the song, and he was singing it more at himself than anyone else, primarily thinking of how he and Keith lost each other.
> 
> He also references Queen’s “ **[Good Old-Fashioned Lover Boy](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=x_YY4W2ZTik)** ,” because Lance and Hunk haven’t sorted their romantic shit out yet, and Lance is a pining, bisexual disaster.
> 
> The ringtone that Shiro’s using as an alarm is The Mountain Goats’ “ **[Up The Wolves](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=el-ZrpQybXM)** ,” which is actually a more recovery-oriented song, overall—but Shiro is using a more vitriolic, vindictive part of the song for his ringtone/alarm, which Ryou takes low-key issue with, which is coming from a protective brother place.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Extra content warnings for this chapter:** During the Shiro part of this chapter, he ends up half-sleeping, half-spacing out and having a more intense flashback than he did in the previous chapter. Said flashback concerns what happened leading up to the events of the previous chapter’s flashback, and it includes, among other things, Sendak stalking Shiro, Sendak being a possessive bastard with Shiro, Sendak forcing his way into Shiro’s apartment, and Sendak trying to make Shiro feel like what happens is his fault.
> 
> Additionally, there’s a reference to Shiro getting some at best questionable and at worst self-destructive ideas about weight and diet from one of his maternal cousins. In her defense, she didn’t have the context to know why talking to him about a fad diet she’d gotten into was a bad idea—but it was still a very bad idea.
> 
> TL;DR: **eating disorders** (including some exact numbers re: Shiro’s weight, depictions of his distorted self-image, and multiple references to purging, self-starvation, and over-exercising as a compensatory measure); **substance abuse** (more referenced than depicted, but there are a few painful lines); **abuse, gaslighting, manipulation** (including references to stalking and some really egregious victim-blaming); and Shiro’s PTSD.

Like a man who has no idea when enough’s enough, Matt hits Lance back during Dr. Nalquod’s lecture. Thankfully, Lance has his phone on vibrate, so no one needs to hear the pornographic moaning that Veronica set as his text alert over the summer, which Lance hasn’t felt like changing, yet. Double-thankfully, no one pays him any mind as he holds his phone under the table and tries to read Matt’s message through the spiderwebbed cracks in the screen (which takes a couple moments, but Lance probably isn’t missing anything important).

 _[shiro’s free later this afternoon]_ , Matt promises. _[he’s busy until 4, but he and his brother are meeting us at the daily grind around 4:30. where are you gonna be until then? like, what classes, which buildings, &c.?]_

Lance shoots Matt his class schedule and his plans for lunch. He even swears that he and Matt can have a chin-wag before his and Hunk’s afternoon class with Dr. Laurie. But the whole affair leaves Lance picking through his food and hoping that he gets enough down—which would’ve been hard enough already, with the total lack of quality going on. Everything on the dining hall buffet in Hedrick Hall looks at least unappetizing, if not outright gross. Sauces and gravies look like they’ve been shellacked into place with hairspray. One container’s chicken cutlets could be made of balsa wood. The raw fruit is fine, but the goopy fruit salad concoction looks an awful lot like electric neon vomit.

As he frowns at the plate he fills for himself, Lance can’t help wondering how he didn’t end up losing the freshman fifteen or more, last year. He might have, this semester—he kinda doubts it and he really hopes he hasn’t, but Lance could be wrong—and the garbage that this school tries to pass off as food is probably somewhat at fault. Normally, he can rely on the campus dining facilities not to screw up nachos. Today, though, the chips taste like soggy, salted cardboard and won’t let Lance pick up any of the beef. The cheese gets tangled on itself, drooping all over everything. By the time Lance concedes defeat and uses a spoon, the beef’s gone kinda cold and feels like rolling pebbles around his mouth.

“I would’ve thought you’d be, like, over-the-moon happy about a chance like this, buddy.”

Sitting opposite Lance and scooping suspicious-looking lasagna up with his spoon, Hunk shrugs as if there shouldn’t be any room for argument. His brown eyes glimmer hopefully, in the way that usually gets Lance to light up with him—but Hunk rolls his eyes when he only manages to make Lance shrug. Much as he’d rather spend money that he shouldn’t on ordering pizza from off-campus—since the dining hall’s alleged pizza gave the impression that someone had made it out of ketchup, Play-Doh, yellow construction paper, and overly salted hunks of cardboard—Lance drops his gaze to his plate. He tries to focus on making himself get through everything he took off the buffet, or at least enough of it that he won’t fall asleep in class.

If he makes it through the next two weeks, Lance will get back home to Florida for Thanksgiving. Then, once his Mom has fussed over her baby and how skinny she thinks he is, Lance will get to eat _real_ food. He’ll be grateful, then, that he stuck it out, and that he didn’t let the dining hall defeat him, not even when Matt’s lies have upset him so badly.

With a heavy sigh, Hunk slouches onto his elbows and some part of Lance wishes that he could disappear. It kicks him in the stomach, watching Hunk sulk like this—seeing him turn on the particular pouty face that comes up when he wants to help someone he cares about but has no idea where to start—and it’s so much the worse because Lance is at fault, this time. He tells himself that he loves Hunk like he’s never loved anybody else, but he’s the one who’s making Hunk feel useless. His best (and sometimes only) friend wouldn’t be so miserable if not for Lance.

Which means he needs to fix it, but before he can, Hunk groans softly and props his chin in his palm. “Seriously, man? How long have you loved Shiro’s music? How _much_ do you love his music? Are you nervous or some—”

“Why would I be nervous?” Lance huffs. “Meeting Shiro’s never gonna happen.”

“But Matt sure seems to think it is.”

“Matt thinks that Jim Carrey’s better in _Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind_ than he is in _Man On The Moon_ , _The Truman Show_ , or _How The Grinch Stole Christmas_.”

“Well, I think that’s a pretty subjective question. And like you can’t really hold it against him—”

“His opinions are wrong about Jim Carrey movies. Also, he thinks Mark Hamill is hotter than Harrison Ford—”

“I mean, Mark Hamill is more interesting than Harrison Ford on Twitter. And he _does_ do the only good Joker—” Eyebrows nearly jumping off his forehead, Hunk holds up his hands in faux-surrender. “ _Excluding_ the late, great Heath Ledger’s.”

“Look, my main point here is?” Lance shoves the last chip into his mouth and grimaces when he doesn’t get a satisfying, pointed crunch. “All I’m saying is? Just because Matt _says_ that he knows Shiro, does not actually _mean_ that he knows Shiro.”

“But it could mean that he really does—”

“Yeah. Except for the part where it really doesn’t. Not in _this_ case.”

“We don’t know for sure about that, though?”

“Are you kidding me, man?” Twitching his nose, Lance slumps back in his seat. He only gets Hunk to arch a single, quizzical eyebrow, but as Lance hugs himself, he sees no reason to back down. “Matt’s a nice guy. And I get it, he totally likes attention because who doesn’t? But just because he went to college in Chicago, doesn’t mean that he ever met Shiro. Just because he got to take a selfie with Mariska Hargitay at Starbucks, one time in New York? Doesn’t mean he knows her. It means they both drink fucking coffee.”

Hunk sighs as if the matter should feel settled, and Lance should love that kind of closure. He’s getting the last word—Hunk doesn’t even decide to point out that, as a nouveau gay icon who puts his self-produced music up on Youtube, Shiro isn’t on the same level of fame as any cast members from _Law and Order: SVU_ —and getting the last word means that Lance wins. Yet, as he gets rid of his tray and dishes, Lance feels something guilty twist around inside his chest. He swallows thickly, glancing back at Hunk, wondering if he’s finally done something bad enough to make Hunk wake up and realize that he could have it so much better than being stuck with Lance forever.

Before they leave for Montgomery Hall, Lance gets the biggest takeout bowl he can find and loads it up with a mix of butterscotch ice cream, strawberry ice cream, whipped cream from the spray cans, and brightly colored sprinkles. Lucky him, the slate-gray sky outside hasn’t decided to start dumping rain or snow or sleet all over everybody; once he and Hunk get to their suspiciously empty classroom, Lance can slip into one of the seats and treat himself to this delightful makeshift sundae. Why? Because the weather is behaving, for once, and maybe the universe wants Lance to have a nice thing.

Except that doesn’t last: halfway through his dessert, someone knocks on the doorway. Lance’s head snaps up—and at the sight of Matt hovering in the threshold, Lance muffles a groan by jamming his spoon into his mouth. As if the great collective unconscious of the universe has decided to punish Lance for daring to enjoy himself, Matt invites himself in and shuts the door behind him.

“You gonna admit that you’re lying to us, now?” Quirking both eyebrows, Lance waits for Matt to sit on a nearby desk and cross his legs up underneath him. “I mean it, man. You can tell the truth and back out now, admit that you don’t actually know Takashi Shirogane, and I won’t have any hard feelings about it.”

With a sigh, Hunk pouts up at Matt. “Do I need to apologize for him right now? Because I can.”

Matt shakes his head. “Come four-thirty, he’ll either see that he’s wrong or decide that I’m some kind of literal wizard. Which would be a really cool way to be, and I’m not saying that I’d argue with it if Lance _could_ make me a wizard, ‘cause I wouldn’t, but…”

Ruffling his hands over his floppy, perpetually messy hair, Matt makes himself take several deep breaths. Why he’s fighting to stay calm like this, Lance couldn’t guess. Sure, it might make sense if Matt were hooked up to a lie-detector because unlike Wonder Woman’s Lasso of Truth, the polygraph is a fundamentally flawed machine who runs on measuring people’s pulses. If Matt had to sit still for one of those tests, every answer he gave would probably ping as some degree of fibbing. Sucks for Matt, but even when he’s telling the truth, he fidgets like a motherfucker.

Whatever he thinks he’s on about with this little Shiro-related stunt, though? Matt slouches like he’s carrying a backpack that weighs as much as he does. His honey-colored eyes gleam so earnestly, Lance’s arms break out in goosebumps. God help him, part of him wants to run screaming from the mouth-long, forlorn expression sagging on Matt’s face.

“Look, I wanted to have a talk before we go for coffee, okay?”

“Oh wow, really? I totally couldn’t tell that from the text message you sent me, asking if we could talk.” Hunk’s hand _thwap!_ s at the back of Lance’s head, and for all he must look like an irritated kitten, Lance huffs. “I am _just! saying!_ Okay?”

“Okay, fine, just…” Matt’s tongue darts out over his lips, and one of his hands balls itself up in his jeans. “There’s a lot going on about this that I can’t tell you guys, all right? Because Shiro’s my friend—”

“Except he isn’t—”

“And this stuff isn’t mine to tell—”

“A likely story—”

“But the long and short of it is?” Zeroing in on Lance, Matt lets out a sigh like he’s _thisclose_ to begging. “Shiro… There’s a reason why he’s been so quiet on his Youtube channel, these past few months. And that reason’s put him in a really not-so-good place. Like, emotionally? Or physically, either, he’s been pretty sick—”

“Is he really okay to meet up, then?” Whining softly, Hunk fusses with the bottom hem of his sweatshirt, rolls the fabric around between his fingers. “‘Cause all right, I know Lance really wants to meet Shiro, but—”

“But Lance isn’t _going_ to meet Shiro because Matt is completely—”

“But if Shiro isn’t doing all right, then we don’t have to? We could always wait and, like…?”

Matt taps his thumb against his knee without any discernible rhythm to it, humming nothing in particular. “He isn’t contagious or anything? Not as far as I know. And he says that he’s okay—I mean, relatively speaking, since…” A huff, and he shakes his head. “Not at liberty to say what I mean about that. I’m probably right up on the line of what is or isn’t okay, as is.”

As Lance spoons more ice cream into his mouth—a nice scoop, a nearly even mix of strawberry and butterscotch—Matt cannot stop fidgeting. It could mean he’s lying, but Lance fidgets all the time, thanks to both his Adderall and his underlying ADHD. Matt can be eerily similar—fussing with hair elastics, empty bottles, and whatever he can get his hands on; drumming on things because his hands just won’t stop moving; jiggling his foot in the air so he won’t bang it on the floor—and he especially gets like this when he’s anxious. Whatever he can’t tell Hunk and Lance, allegedly involving Shiro being sick in ways that aren’t Matt’s business to disclose, that could definitely wind a guy up.

 _If_ Matt knows Shiro—and what the fuck, maybe he really does? Maybe he can’t keep still, but Lance would be a nervous wreck if Hunk were in some kind of serious trouble, the kind of pain and suffering that Lance couldn’t fix by loving him or busting ass until reality got its act together and gave Lance what he wanted (which would be nothing short of entirely, perfectly reasonable, since Hunk _deserves_ all the happiness in the entire universe and then some).

Whatever the truth is, Matt holds his floppy bangs back off his face. The expression he wears makes Lance’s heart writhe with how earnest and how _sad_ it is. “Look, there’s a reason why Shiro’s been so quiet on his channel. There was a reason why he didn’t post anything over the summer, too. I don’t know everything about either of those situations—”

 _“Because you don’t actually know Shiro,”_ Lance wants to say, but doesn’t. Watching Matt now, his tongue feels like it’s swollen to twice its size and been cemented to the roof of his mouth.

“But the real point here is? He says he wants to meet you guys—”

“He knows he doesn’t need to, right?” Hunk watches his and Lance’s friend as if Matt’s answer might unlock the secret to world peace. “If he isn’t doing okay, then we can wait? Or he just doesn’t need to meet us? No matter how much Lance wants it?”

“I told him so, but he said that it’s fine. All I wanna do is warn you, like?” Matt’s shoulders droop and he lets his hand flop into his lap. “Shiro’s a good guy, okay? But he’s in kind of a weird place, and there’s a lot going on for him, right now. In a lot of ways. And once you get to know him, he’s really sweet, and smart, and kind, and sensitive, and he has a pretty weird sense of humor, but it exists, deep down.”

“So, what’re you saying?” Lance twitches his nose. “Is that you want to warn me about how Shiro’s exactly what I thought he’d be, based on his videos?”

An easy enough question—except Matt shakes his head. “I’m warning you that, if Shiro seems cold later? It’s not about you. You probably won’t be doing anything wrong, and if he comes off like a jerk, he doesn’t mean it. He _does_ want to meet you, and I’ll swear to you on any-damn-thing you want that he’s trying. And however he seems? He probably won’t dislike you guys. It just takes him a while to warm up to people, sometimes, and he’s, like…”

“Going through a rough patch?” Hunk suggests, and those words alone make Lance gulp.

“That’s an understatement, but pretty much.” Whatever’s going on in his head—whatever goes on in there on any other day—Matt lets his lips screw themselves up in a pensive pout. He takes one deep breath, and then another, and he looks for all the world like he could go on for a few more hours, telling Lance stories about Shiro that may or may not be true, but would certainly be compelling. Like something that could be a series on HBO, except for the part where it’s infinitely annoying because Matt might actually be lying and Lance can’t tell for the life of him what is or isn’t true.

If that’s what Matt’s got in mind, then the possibility dies when his phone buzzes in his jeans. He doesn’t even check the thing, just hops off the desk and zips up his hoodie like he’s got a mission to attend to. He only pauses in the doorway because Hunk asks if everything’s okay.

“Well, I sure hope so,” Matt tells them with a small, wobbly smile. “Shiro’s brother just got out of his class, and I’m meeting the two of them for lunch.”

  


* * *

  


In theory, hanging out with Matt after lunch sounds like the ideal solution for everyone. Ryou has to be in some class that sounds like wasting four credit hours to learn what one does with a PhD in physics, but Shiro can’t be on his own. Matt’s boss doesn’t argue when he explains that Shiro’s an old friend. Fortunately, they don’t need to stay long in the IT office. Something funny’s going wrong with Matt’s Dad’s computer, and Dr. Holt can’t fix it on his own. In theory, Matt and Shiro should relax as much as possible, given that Matt has an active imagination and no concrete answers about _why_ Shiro needs this babysitting.

In practice, Matt heaves a sigh as soon as Shiro drops his messenger bag and flops out on Dr. Holt’s office sofa (thankfully, long enough for a six-foot-three disaster area who’s pretending to be a human being). One look over at his friend, and Shiro shuts his eyes. The scrunched up look of concern on Matt’s face comes as no real surprise. True, the extent to which Matt cares about Shiro is likely rooted in unwarranted guilt and Matt blaming himself for things that literally could not have been his fault—but either way, looking at Matt makes Shiro feel like he has a ten-ton weight bearing down on his chest, clamping around his lungs, and sucking the life out of him with impossible ferocity.

He doesn’t get much of a reprieve by closing his eyes, but if nothing else, Shiro briefly has less to think about. Silently, he shoves a hand into one of his hooded sweatshirt’s pockets, rests his fingers on Usa-chan’s yarn torso. It’s probably about seventeen kinds of weird and pathetic that Shiro’s carrying his bunny with him. He’s twenty-three, going on twenty-four. He’s been through more than enough to make anyone grow up. Shouldn’t he have gotten over needing to hug a stuffed rabbit that he’s had since childhood? Shouldn’t he—

“Wow, you _really_ didn’t get that much sleep last night, did you?”

Shiro gives up a noncommittal sound. “I lost track of time.”

Matt tries to chuckle, and mostly comes up sounding like he could use a nap himself. “I just mean, you really do seem out of it today? First, you almost nod off over lunch, and now it’s nap-time? Are we back in kindergarten now, or what?”

“‘m just tired. Honestly. Because, like you pointed out? I didn’t really sleep last night.”

“Okay, but what were you even _doing_? Or should I say, _‘Whom’_ were you doing?”

“I can’t stop you. But if we’re putting it to a vote, then yeah, I’d rather you didn’t.” Burrowing further into the cushions, Shiro deadpans, “Anyway, I’ve been feeling like too much of a pillow princess lately. Not in the mood to _do unto_ anybody, sexually.”

As if impressed, Matt whistles. “Not even if Heath Ledger came back to life? And, y’know, offered to give you everything you could ever want, and all you’d have to do is top him into the mattress _once_?”

“I mean, if Heath Ledger came back to life at this point, he’d be disgusting? Putrescent and rotted, he’d smell like dirt and decay and stale embalming fluid—and who even knows whether or not he caught something postmortem—”

“What, like from a vampire?”

“I was thinking more about the kinds of people who work in mortuaries, but…” Shiro quirks his shoulders. “Your way works, too.”

Matt makes a noise like vomiting in his Dad’s wastebasket. A chill shocks to the pit of Shiro’s own stomach. But Matt can’t know. Can he? Keith figured it out, back in Chicago. Probably, Keith put everything together before he caught Shiro in the act of making himself throw up. But Matt, he doesn’t know about why the sound of someone retching—or pretending to retch, as the case currently is—makes Shiro’s blood freeze like he’s been shot full of liquid nitrogen. He doesn’t need to know about the itch in the back of Shiro’s throat, begging him to scratch it, to run down the hallway to the men’s room and—

Shiro grits his teeth. Jabs his hand under his shirts. He wants to scratch at his hip, but thanks to his blunted nails, he kneads his flesh instead. What little there is to knead. Swallowing thickly, Shiro fights himself to keep breathing. His other hand trembles, balled up in his sweatshirt, his knuckles straining like they could rip through his skin. He needs to keep himself together. Can’t let Matt deduce what he’s struggling with. Can’t handle the multitude of questions that Matt will no doubt have, if Shiro ever slips up enough to let him notice patterns or put any potential signs together. Of course, Matt would only mean to help a friend, but that only makes his hypothetical intervention worse.

So, Shiro needs to keep himself together. No gasping, no sobbing, no whimpering as if he’s spread out on a bed at the Peninsula, like a cadaver before the Cook County Medical Examiner, with Maurice bearing down on him—tall and broad, heavier than he already looked, thanks to the two-hundred-and-seventy pounds of firm muscle lurking on his body, his feverish breath and five o’clock shadow ghosting over Shiro’s lips and skin—and Maurice’s thick-fingered, hairy, millstone hand caressing Shiro’s neck so gently, teasing like he meant to tighten his grip, reminding Shiro that Maurice had the power, the control, the everything. He could even decide when Shiro got to breathe—

Shiro’s fingers clamp down on his hip-bone. Hard enough to make him wince. But that little shock of pain—it’s something real. So is the tap-tap clacking of Matt’s fingers on his father’s keyboard. His name is Takashi Shirogane. He’s in Keaton, Massachusetts. Specifically, in Dr. Sam Holt’s office, in the science building corner that’s been portioned off for one of Kaltenecker University’s engineering departments. He is not in Chicago, he is not with Maurice, and he is not going to shove his fingers down his throat, no matter how much he might want to.

No entertaining memories like that, either. Shiro needs to just keep breathing, nice and slow, like nothing’s wrong or ever could be.

Over behind the desk, Matt chuckles and Shiro can’t tell how genuine it is or isn’t. “Still awake over there?”

“No.”

“Kinda sounds like you are.”

“‘s anybody ever _really_ awake, though?”

“Alright, Shiro Baudrillard. You gonna pontificate about simulations and simulacra now or something?”

“I’d really rather not.”

“Or why don’t we get some red M&M’s and find out how deep the rabbit hole goes.”

“Are…” Sighing into his palm, Shiro grinds at the bridge of his nose. “Are we still talking about literally anything?”

“Uh…” Matt’s typing abruptly stops. “I don’t know?”

“At least we’re on the same page about that.”

“Why _did_ you stay up all night, though?” When Shiro gives him a noise like the vocal equivalent of a shrug, Matt resumes whatever he’s doing to Dr. Holt’s computer. He lets a few moments go by without any interjections, then—“Seriously, man. I’m not gonna judge you or anything.”

“Duly noted. But I can only talk about the reasons _once_ today.” He looks over at the desk, clears his throat until Matt blinks back at him. “I didn’t even talk to Ryou about them—not really—‘cause I’m saving the energy for Ulaz. Okay?”

Although Matt pouts like he could stand to argue, he gives Shiro a nod. “D’you feel up to talking about what you _did_ , though?”

 _“Considering how what I did was so wrapped up in my reasons for not sleeping, the semantic difference feels sort of silly, right now”_ —a fair objection, but Shiro chokes it down, because saying things like that wouldn’t do any good for either him or Matt.

Instead, he shrugs and offers, “Thankfully, Ryou’s got _Game of Thrones_ , seasons one and two, on Blu-Ray. And the pirated season three that he hooked me up with until the legit copies come out.”

“Shiro, do I even want to know how in Seven Hells that show helps you _sleep_?”

“Drinking game,” Shiro deadpans. “Every time Cersei and Tyrion help themselves to the wine, I chug a cup of chamomile tea.”

This makes Matt burst out in giggles, even though it isn’t really funny.

Dead air settles in all over again—but Shiro leaves out the part of this story where Ryou held the episodes over his head, refusing to share them until his Kashi called Dr. Troy’s office to get his first appointment with her. What matters is: Shiro did make that appointment, and he got the episodes he wanted, and he _does not_ get choked up over Sansa’s storyline, because he’s read the books, so he knows that she’ll escape King’s Landing in ways that he can never really leave Chicago.

Humming pensively, Shiro listens to Matt’s tap-tap-tapping and God, he needs something to talk about. Yet, he decides not to mention how many times Ryou’s threatened to go in and delete the episodes—since Shiro’s changed his laptop’s password since Chicago, but Ryou has several hunches about what the new one is—all because he feels like his Kashi isn’t cooperating enough with the myriad healthcare providers in his life. He always rattles Shiro, saying things like that, but Shiro can’t let Ryou know. He doesn’t _mean_ to sound like Maurice, how could he?

Anyway, Shiro doesn’t need to fight his brother. It’s difficult enough, trying to prove beyond Ryou’s capacity for “reasonable” (albeit overwhelmingly unjustified) doubt that Shiro can perfectly handle watching Ramsay Snow torture Theon Greyjoy.

While Matt wonders which men of the Night’s Watch would be best to sleep with, Shiro rolls onto his side, burrows his cheek into the pillow that the other Dr. Holt embroidered for her husband, and decides against mentioning how he spends all of Gilly’s scenes trying to ignore the fact that her actress also played Cassie, the anorexic girl who Shiro used to love on that BBC show, _Skins_. It’s wildly unfair to Hannah Murray, who’s obviously hard-working and talented, and probably a very sweet person—but all Shiro thinks when Gilly’s talking is, _“I didn’t eat for three days so I could be lovely.”_

Fortunately, Matt decides to take the reins, huffing, “So, what about the Night’s Watch? Which Crow could make an honest man out of you?”

“I wouldn’t really be an honest man, if I seduced any of them into my bed. In order to sleep with me, they’d need to break solemn vows, made before either a weirwood tree or—”

“Wait, _you’re_ the one who told me that they sleep around—”

“Because some of them _do_ visit the local brothel—”

“And what about Ygritte—”

“Jon’s going to have to answer for breaking his vows—”

“ _Oooooh_ , Jon fucking _Snow!_ ” Moaning and gasping like the bottom in a bad gangbang porno, Matt rolls his father’s ergonomic chair away from the desk. He swivels around in the seat, and with the way he squirms and throws his arms up—he _might_ be dancing? He could also maybe need to work a knot out of his back? Except he lets out a rhythmic laugh and then—“ _He’s so craaazy! I think I wanna have his baby_ —”

“You’re cis,” Shiro points out flatly.

Undeterred, Matt croons, “ _What a man, what a man, what a man, what a mighty good man_ —”

Shiro snorts. “Sure. If by, ‘good,’ you mean, ‘arbitrarily special without earning it’—”

“ _My man is smooth like Barry_ —”

“Not really—”

“ _And his voice got bass_ —”

“On what _show_ —”

“ _A body like Arnold_ —”

“I think you’re insulting Kit Harington—”

“ _With a Denzel face_ —”

Snickering, Shiro affects a higher voice and whines, “Leave Denzel Washington alone! Leave him _alone_ —”

“ _He always has heavy conversations for the mind_ —”

“Well, now, you’re cherry picking lyrics—”

“ _Which means a lot to me ‘cause good men are hard to find_.”

Flopping onto his back again, Shiro rubs his temple. “Keep looking, man. Jon Snow is _not_ actually—”

“ _What a man, what a man, what a man, what a mighty good man. I said WHAT a mighty_ —”

 _Thump! Thump thump thump-thump-thump_ —then a clatter and a dull _thud_.

Shiro doesn’t blame Dr. Holt’s next-door officemate for banging on the wall. Even on a good day, Matt’s idea of an “inside voice” leaves much to be desired. After a couple moments, Matt hasn’t resumed singing. Or typing. Or making any noise at all. Moving sounds like such a chore and a waste of energy—but since the other option is being an awful friend while Matt might be suffering, Shiro inhales deeply and forces himself to his feet.

First thing he notices: the chair’s sitting by the wall. Shiro cringes, hopes like Hell that he won’t find anything _too_ awful, when he leans over Dr. Holt’s desk. Craning his neck, he calls softly, “Matt…?”

Matt’s hand shoots into the air, giving Shiro a thumbs up. It’d ease Shiro’s mind, if not for the tight, aching way Matt groans. “What’s this story? Am I the whitest white boy you’ve ever met in your life?”

“Yes, obviously. But that isn’t news.” Tilting his head, Shiro sighs at the supine heap that’s usually one of his only real friends. God help him, as Matt sits up, Shiro grins and can’t hold back the laughter that bubbles out of him. “You could’ve just _said_ that you want to be Jon Snow’s boyfriend. For the seventeen-millionth time this week—”

“Made you laugh, though!” As he shambles to the chair, Matt beams brighter than the office’s fluorescent lights. “ _That_ is what I like to hear, man.”

“Well, I like to hear that my friends have better taste than sleeping with Jon Snow.”

Not that Shiro can say that about most of the people he knows. Matt and Ryou both want to bed Ned Stark’s alleged bastard. So does Mark, Shiro’s old roommate. Cameron would sleep with the crow-come-over, too—a rare disappointment from Shiro’s first crush, one of the only people he knew in Corpus Christi who’s worth keeping in touch with. Of the cousins who reliably acknowledge Shiro and Ryou, Rei, Erika, and Tatsuya would all let Lord Crow know them Biblically; Kira wouldn’t, but then again, she’s a lesbian. Of the Tenō cousins, Junko, Hitomi, Yuuna, Izumi, Rika, and Kasumi are up on American pop culture, and every single one of them would sexually get with the Bastard of Winterfell, given half a chance. Laura from high school doesn’t want him, but she’s a lesbian like Kira, so that makes sense. It also hasn’t stopped her from saying that she’d go there with Jon Snow if he only were a girl—and as Shiro drops back onto the couch, as he slumps over onto his side once more, something thick and cold wells up in his throat.

  


* * *

  


_[Come on, starlight],_ Laura sent Shiro, that day, April 15th. _[my tastes don’t even include boys, but I can admit: Jon Snow’s very pretty]_

 _[I’m not saying he isn’t]_ , Shiro texted back. _[He’s just incredibly boring and personally, I would never sleep with him]_

_[Not even a little bit?]_

_[How do you “little bit” sleep with someone]_

_[idk, I was assuming you could find a way]_

_[It was your idea]_

_[you’re the GENIUS]_

He was running errands in between these messages, trying to keep himself busy until Keith’s long Monday shift at the used bookstore ended. He’d barely gotten half an hour of practice in with his guitar, after Keith had left. Then, Shiro’s nerves forced him out of the old apartment, into the streets, into Chicago’s spring breeze and pendulous gray clouds. The way he figured, if he couldn’t calm himself down—if he was going to spend the whole day practically vibrating with anxiety over the conversation that he and Keith needed to have—then he might as well get something done.

So far, he’d gotten in two hours at the gym, which had been more time than Shiro was supposed to log, given the plethora of serious injuries that he’d survived recently. Despite that rule nominally having Shiro’s best interests at heart, he’d barely felt the burn. He’d wanted to go for three hours, except it would’ve put Keith in a foul mood. He would’ve raised all holy Hell about how Shiro didn’t need to work out so much, and how he was going to hurt himself if he kept going, and how Keith had so many reasons for hating it when Shiro made himself sick, most of which also applied to Shiro working out. It was ridiculous, but nobody else agreed with him about this, the most obvious of all possible facts.

After a shower, he’d doubled back to the apartment, hauled a few loads of laundry down the block, and thrown them in. While waiting on the last to dry, Shiro ducked into the Mariano’s across the street. Maybe he should’ve looked into buying actual groceries. He didn’t _think_ that they needed anything at the apartment—his whole brain felt more than a little fuzzy, though, so what did he know—but it felt like he should get _something_. If Keith could’ve had his way, Shiro would’ve gotten something for himself.

Instead, Shiro found himself in the aisle of frozen desserts, staring at the vast array of options, counting off the different kinds of ice cream, frozen yogurt, gelato, and sorbet. Worrying his fingers through his hair, he combed his eyes over the rows of Breyer’s, Ben and Jerry’s, Häagen-Dazs, and several other brands whose names never managed to stick in his memory. So many options sat before him, so many things that Shiro couldn’t afford to eat. One of them might’ve made Keith smile, though. Giving him a treat could’ve helped show that Shiro didn’t hold the inevitable romantic rejection against him.

How could he have even tried to justify a thing like that? Keith deserved infinitely better. He deserved the world and so much more. But he might’ve worried that Shiro wouldn’t forgive him for simply not returning Shiro’s feelings—so, ice cream. Something small to prove that Keith still had a friend and a home, if he wanted either, and it didn’t matter that he would never debase himself enough to love a monster.

Except temptation crouched at the door, urging itself toward Shiro. Every time he lingered too long on a container of something strawberry-flavored, Shiro rubbed his fingertips along his palms. He needed to cut his nails. As it stood, he could have dug them into his flesh, used the pain to ground himself and tune out the way his stomach churned, the yearning that flared up and tried to seduce him with thoughts of how he hadn’t had _any_ ice cream since his and Ryou’s birthday, and he’d vomited that up, and Keith would probably like to see Shiro treating himself—but over and over again, Shiro shook his head.

Doing so banished none of the thoughts that plagued him. He also didn’t help himself by sucking in his gut, whatever he _could_ suck in, and recalling that he hadn’t thrown up the bowl of instant oatmeal he’d eaten for breakfast and Keith’s benefit. He got nothing out of closing his eyes and trying to make himself feel said food, still sitting in his stomach like a box of rocks. The only aid Shiro could find came from numbers.

The only way he kept himself from filling up his plastic hand-basket with every box of strawberry shortcake bars, was by remembering that he’d weighed himself at the gym, after cleaning himself up. He could’ve done it at the apartment instead. Despite weeks upon weeks of myriad threats, Keith had yet to hide the scale—but if Shiro had checked his weight at home, then he probably would’ve wound up purging. Even if Keith hadn’t seen him standing by the bathroom wall, head bowed like a man approaching an altar, then Shiro still would’ve felt sick with himself for caring so much when Keith wished so badly that he wouldn’t.

Even if Keith hadn’t watched Shiro stepping onto the platform with the reverence of a penitent in a confessional—even if he hadn’t narrowed his bewitching, blue-violet eyes and let them burn with completely accurate accusations that he maybe couldn’t bring himself to level—then Shiro still would’ve known how Keith felt about this habit of his, this little personal thing that Shiro _needed_ to keep going with until he was perfect. Guilt would’ve curled and twisted itself around Shiro’s insides, hot and heavier than anything else he’d ever known, choking him with the fact that he was poison. Something inside of him was broken—what else could explain everything he’d done and made Keith deal with in the past nearly-seventeen months—and Keith hated the only thing Shiro could do to fix it.

At least there was the gym. At least Shiro could stand on one of their scales, and see the stark, black, digital numbers spelling out _152.5_. At least he could breathe more easily at that sight, because his weight was still down from yesterday, thank God, meaning that he’d inched closer to his endgame goal. He’d figured it out a little over six weeks ago, when Kasumi had bothered to call him for his twenty-third birthday. As she’d rabbited on about her own most recent diet, something had clicked. He still couldn’t explain what it had been, but finally, he knew where he needed to be and he knew for sure when he could stop.

Staring at the seemingly infinite shelves of ice cream now, Shiro nodded. Yes, he felt the pangs sparking up inside of him—both those from physical hunger, and those from wishing he could treat himself, just this once—and yes, he acknowledged them. But even if he hadn’t kept himself from falling in love with Keith and breaking the promise he’d made when Maurice had given him the leather collar around his neck, Shiro was stronger than the baser impulses that begged him to indulge. Only ten pounds stood between him and the point where he wouldn’t need to purge or starve himself anymore. Only ten pounds, and then he’d stop because he would be perfect.

When his phone buzzed with Laura’s latest text—the one inexplicably calling him a genius—Shiro sighed in relief. Conveniently solid excuse not to gaze long into an abyss of things he couldn’t eat, not if he ever wanted to hone his self-control or be good enough to break free from this misery.

Without thinking, he typed out, _[Well I wouldn’t even sleep with Jon Snow a “little bit,” sweetheart. If I wanted to be with a useless gray-eyed pretty boy who mopes all the time and ruins everything by being a miserable, stupid fuck-up, then gets out of consequences because God (or GRRM) thinks way he’s more special than he really is, I’d cut to the action, remove Jon Snow from all equations, and just go jerk off in my bedroom]_

Reading it over, though, Shiro cringed. While everything he’d written was completely true, it was the sort of text that might’ve made Laura worry. If she got worried, then she’d call him. If she called him from Vancouver, then international charges would be involved, and she probably wouldn’t have let Shiro pay her back for them. Aside from that, there wasn’t anything _worth_ worrying over, regardless of how much Keith and Laura and Ryou wanted to pretend otherwise. If anybody was in pain, at least it was only Shiro, which meant the pain didn’t matter.

Or so he hoped. He’d tried to stop hurting Keith, the way he’d unwittingly done in his as yet unsuccessful pursuit of happiness, perfection, and other beautiful things that Shiro could never in a million years deserve. But he couldn’t tell whether he’d managed this or not. Couldn’t tell exactly how much Keith knew or didn’t about what he’d been doing, much less how how he’d hypothetically made Keith feel. Keith’s pain would’ve _mattered_ , though, because Keith meant _everything_ —but Shiro couldn’t dwell on that. Not at the moment. Not while Shiro had other, more immediately pressing problems.

In the hopes of cutting the head off Laura’s worry-snake, though, Shiro made himself send her the text, _[Either way. Jon Snow is hot enough, I guess, but he’s not my type]_

Almost immediately, she fired back, _[lmao really?]_

Blinking down at those two words, Shiro wanted to be sick. His grip tightened around his phone. Too many replies flared up in his mind at once. All of them too much, too loud, and too intent on warring for his attention without giving him a chance to pick one over any of the others. His thumbs hovered over his phone’s touch-screen, trying to make a response come together out of the formless chaos in his head.

Fortunately, Laura got a follow-up out first: _[he’s moody and unfairly pretty with dark hair, big eyes, impulse control issues, and a mysterious but tragic backstory that means he doesn’t know his real parents. sure sounds like somebody else in your life, and i’ve seen the way you look at him………]_

As if her point weren’t clear enough already, she followed her conga line of ellipses with the smug-looking, halo-wearing smiley face emoji. Blushing hot and scarlet, Shiro shoved his phone back into his pocket and grabbed up two pints of Keith’s favorite, black raspberry chocolate chip. He fumbled through paying cash for them, then through folding up the now-clean clothes, then rushing back to the apartment. At no point did his face calm down or let him look like someone with a modicum of self-control. Nothing helped him feel less desperate and unsteady. Too likely, nothing could’ve helped him.

Only one thing gave any Shiro pause from that humiliation, stopping him dead in his tracks, mere meters from his building: a vintage Lexus sedan, painted a rich, dark, pristine burgundy. Sitting at a parking meter across the street, it gleamed too brightly for a block like this, every part of it—except the dull black of its tinted windows, which prevented Shiro from getting a look at who was in the seats, if anybody. He’d seen a car like this before, on a few different occasions, in a private garage uptown, with a heavy hand on the small of his back and a low, smooth growl praising the car’s virtues—

No. No, that was ridiculous. Maurice never came by Shiro’s place; he never wanted to. He’d probably forgotten Shiro’s address. Aside from that, Shiro’s last text to him— _“I don’t want to talk anymore”_ —hadn’t been particularly subtle. He’d sent that eight days ago. Since then, Shiro hadn’t answered any of Maurice’s texts or calls. He’d listened to all twelve of the voicemails that Maurice had left, then summarily deleted them. In the eighth, Maurice had gone on about how he knew his _sweet boy_ wasn’t sick or dead because he’d seen Shiro at the bookstore; he would’ve insisted on a conversation, had Shiro’s boss’s husband not removed him from the premises. 

In the most recent one, waiting on Shiro’s phone when he’d woken up this morning, Maurice had snarled, _“If you continue ignoring me, Takashi, then there will be consequences. You **know** what manner of power I have. You **know** what I can do with it, and you **know** what behavior I **expect** from you. All that I have asked for—all that I have **wanted** , for the past several days—is confirmation of your wellness, and for you to **own** your choices. Respond to me before noon, or I will need to take desperate measures with you. Do not force my hand, sweet boy, and do not **dare** to make me wait”_—but he wouldn’t have come all the way down here in his Lexus. Shiro didn’t mean that much to him, and he definitely wasn’t worth the effort.

Trying to dismiss these stupid, entirely wrongheaded thoughts—and hopefully avoid seeming rude, if anyone in the car thought he was staring at them—Shiro dialled Laura, damn the international charges and the two-hour lag between their time zones. As he pushed himself toward his apartment and argued with the keys and lock, he pressed his phone between his ear and shoulder, listening to her bubble and chirp about how it had been too long since they’d had a call and how good it was to hear his voice.

 _“I’m doing all right,”_ he lied, setting the laundry basket on the futon. _“I mean, I can’t focus to save my life today, but that’s my own fault. Making myself wait to do something that means so much to me, like? I should’ve known that I’d be useless today.”_

 _“You’re never useless, Starlight.”_ That must’ve been a lie, too—but hearing it made Shiro smile, which was probably Laura’s point. _“I think a certain crow in your life would probably agree with me.”_

 _“I know he would, but you shouldn’t insult him by comparing him to Jon Snow literally ever.”_ For his next trick, he hauled the bag from Mariano’s into the kitchen. Letting Keith’s treat melt would’ve defeated the purpose of getting it for him in the first place. _“Also, even without bringing up the Bastard of Winterfell, Keith isn’t a crow. At all. He’s like a really finicky cat. But a good-hearted really finicky cat.”_

_“And if you don’t make a move on him soon, honey—”_

_“I’ve been_ ** _trying_** _, okay? I’ve got something—tonight, I mean? When he gets home from work, we’re having a talk. But I was trying before that, too.”_ God, why was it so difficult to fit the ice cream in the freezer? How many bags of frozen vegetables did they _need_? Sure, they were one of the only meals that Shiro could make on his own, but he wasn’t exactly eating them. _“Except I guess Ryou thinks—like, I thought I was being obvious? And letting Keith_ ** _know_** _how I feel? Like, what else would you think about getting, ‘I Want Your Sex’ all but outright dedicated to you at karaoke?”_

Laura faked a pensive hum and failed to mask her affectionate snickering. _“Mostly, I’d think you were so drunk, the compulsory heterosexuality demons had made you temporarily forget that both of us are gay.”_

_“Not like—But I wouldn’t—Come on, I know I like my tequila, but it’s not_ **_that_ ** _bad—”_

_“The number of drunk texts you’ve sent me lately might beg to differ.”_

_“I’m not drunk-texting right_ ** _now_** _, am I? Or I wasn’t before I called you, I mean.”_

He didn’t need to hear Laura confirm that he hadn’t been messaging her under that particular influence. Ever since their birthday—specifically, since learning what Shiro had done with the bottle of Johnnie Walker Excelsior that Ojiisan had left to Satomi in his will—Ryou had been on yet another kick about wishing that his Kashi wouldn’t drink so much or so often. In lip-service to making Ryou calm down about problems that objectively didn’t exist, Shiro had skipped his usual morning tequila and taken twenty-five milligrams of Vicodin, instead of his usual _“ten or fifteen, depends on how I feel.”_

But saying so probably would’ve soured Laura’s good mood, so as he leaned against the counter, Shiro swallowed that completely valid point. He looked back toward his room, where waited his collection of flasks and several bottles of Cuervo. Only briefly, though. He could have a drink when he and Laura were done talking, like a reward for calming down about a storm that wasn’t going to come.

 _“I just don’t get what the big deal is,”_ Shiro groaned softly, letting his head loll into the cupboard behind him. _“I get it, I made a really questionable life-choice by stealing Ojiisan’s whisky from Satomi—”_

_“Most people wouldn’t call that ‘questionable,’ Starlight—”_

_“Well, one thing that Keith’s right about? Most people are some kind of idiots—”_

_“I mean, they would use stronger words than that. Probably with different meanings. And focusing on different things—”_

_“It’s whatever, sweetheart. My maybe-problematic choices don’t matter, okay? Not really. Keith sure didn’t mind it when I shared a couple shots with him.”_ While Laura made a throaty, halfway protesting sound, Shiro tugged his fingers through his languid black forelock. _“If it was really so important, then why didn’t Ryou say anything before? Satomi figured out what I did months before he even_ ** _bothered_** _asking—”_

 _“Maybe he was nervous. Y’know, about trying to bring it up with you?”_ Laura heaved a sigh that must’ve spent a long time brewing. _“Starlight, you know I love you. But when people try to talk about your drinking with you? I don’t know, you get…_ ** _different_** _.”_

 _“Yeah, okay, I guess I get annoyed?”_ Shiro tried to laugh, but only came up with a huff. _“Mostly since it feels like Keith’s the only person who be angry about it without acting like I’m completely_ ** _stupid_** _.”_

_“No one’s trying to call you stupid, Kashi—”_

_“Ryou is. Every time he wants to bring this up, it’s some kind of, ‘Kashi, you dumb-ass. Kashi, you idiot. Kashi, it’s like you’re playing Russian Roulette with Charlie Brown’s football, you fucking_ ** _blockhead_** _.’”_

_“I, wait—What the—Starlight, what the Hell are you talking about?”_

_“I don’t know, all right? I_ ** _don’t_** _. Ask Ryou what_ ** _he’s_** _talking about.”_ But Laura deserved a better answer, so Shiro knocked his head against the cupboard. Maybe it’d rattle some of his mental wires back into place. _“He’s the one who gets like, ‘Niichan, with the way you’ve been going? It’s like when Lucy rips away Charlie Brown’s football, except you’re somehow simultaneously Lucy, Charlie Brown,_ ** _and_** _the football. Also, you’re stupid, you’re an idiot, how are we even related, I can’t believe you’re my brother, I wanna get a new one and he’ll be better than you at absolutely everything’—”_

_“The only thing in there that sounds even a little bit like Ryou? Is the Charlie Brown’s football thing.”_

_“Yeah, well, maybe he doesn’t_ ** _need_** _to say it.”_ Grinding his palm against the edge of the counter, Shiro swallowed thickly. _“Maybe I_ ** _wish_** _he’d say it, so we could get it out in the open, where it belongs, instead of having some nymphomaniac tentacle monster sitting on the futon, messing up the place while we all ignore it. Like that approach has ever worked for literally anybody.”_

Laura let slip a noise like she was wincing. _“Honey, if I didn’t know that this is just the way your mind works? I’d swear to your Ojiisan’s God, your Obaasan’s kami, Týr, Forseti, the US Supreme Court, Keith, and everyone that you were completely off your rocker, high.”_

Hell’s bells, it took everything Shiro had in him to keep himself from laughing. Choking down that impulse left him with a heavy, deadened ache in his chest, a feeling that only two tactics would drive away. A good kiss or a fuck would dull the pain, take the edge off for a while. Even a lousy lay could do the job enough to get Shiro through an hour or so if he got lucky. Sometimes, he got to feel like there was any hope at all—until the afterglow faded, and truth came to lift away those seven veils, and Shiro found himself dragged back down to the grimy, bone-chilling reality, where the thing above all else that hurt him most, was the emptiness inside of him, reminding Shiro that he was no one.

 _“Anyway, it doesn’t matter,”_ Shiro told Laura, trying to drive away the silence. _“Even Aunt Satomi wasn’t_ ** _that_** _upset about me drinking Ojiisan’s whisky. She said herself, the thing that she really didn’t like was the fact I_ ** _lied_** _to her about it.”_

_“Understandable thing to worry over. But it doesn’t mean she wasn’t also upset about the drinking—”_

Whatever she said next, he missed it. His head perked up at something banging on the door.

Shiro pressed his phone to his chest, muffling Laura as much as he could. He held his breath, tried to stand perfectly still. More banging followed, but maybe, if Shiro didn’t move, whoever was there would go away. He bit his lip, trying to rein in any trembling, and shut his eyes as though he could escape by simply refusing to see anything.

No, this wasn’t happening. He wasn’t here, wasn’t home, wasn’t anybody—no one worth the effort that the attempted visitor put into each knock, at any rate. In graveyard silence, he looped two fingers through the O-ring on his collar. Chilly but not quite cold, the silver kneaded at his flesh, his bones, and he thumbed at it in return, spinning the ring as though he could unlock some as-yet unknown magical properties. Some charm, or spell, _something_ to banish this unwanted visitor.

Yet, the knocking persisted. Each bang seemed louder, more demanding. Willing them to stop, he worried at his collar, rubbing the rabbit fur lining and silver buckle against his neck—but he didn’t yield to the impulse telling him to sit. The interloper tried the doorknob, stymied by the lock. Next, they shook the door—but Shiro forced himself into the perfectly rigid, straight-backed posture that Ojiisan had always looked for. Maybe he disgraced his entire family in everything he did—his late grandfather certainly deserved better from the grandson who’d inherited his name—but Shiro would not cower. He would not flinch. And whatever this was, he would not go gentle.

After all, what reason did he have for fear? That obnoxious burgundy Lexus outside had belonged to a stranger, someone Shiro had never met and never would because they had no reason for dealing with each other. This wasn’t happening, he wasn’t home, and as for Maurice—

 _“I know that you’re in there, Takashi,”_ that too, too familiar voice snarled, during a lull in all his knock-knock-knocking. _“Now, be a good boy and open this goddamn door before I break. it._ ** _down_** _.”_

Rolling his eyes, Shiro hissed to his phone, _“Sudden guest, sweetheart. I’ll call you back. I love you.”_

He should have gone right to the door. Shouldn’t have poked the bear or tested the limits of Maurice’s patience. Doing that had only led Shiro into trouble before—but as Maurice’s fist thundered against the door, he lingered by the freezer.

Fighting for each deep breath he made himself take, Shiro traced his fingertips down a strip of photo-booth pictures of himself and Keith, pinned up with a magnet shaped like Jack Skellington from _The Nightmare Before Christmas_. Once upon a time, Shiro had made Keith take these photos with him, all but bodily dragging him into the booth during their first, last, and only visit to Navy Pier, begging Keith to humor him because you _had_ to do touristy things like this, just once.

God, Keith looked beautiful in all the pictures, even with his scrunched up faces making it clear how much he hated sitting for pictures. Hated it, but he’d done it anyway, all to make Shiro happy. In return, Shiro had strung Keith along, grabbed onto him while drowning, and dragged him down, perhaps to depths inescapable. Shiro deserved none of Keith’s love—he didn’t deserve Keith’s friendship, either, or the bare minimum of his goodness—but while Maurice tried a slightly more polite round of knocking, Shiro leaned in to kiss the second picture from the top. That was his favorite, the one where he’d used his fingers to give Keith bunny ears while Keith almost smiled.

 _“I am_ ** _waiting_** _, Takashi, and I grow impatient,”_ Maurice called, then started rapping on the door again—and he was right about the waiting. And Shiro should have known better than to dawdle.

Still, he frowned at how he looked in those shots from the photo-booth. Shiro definitely remembered looking terrible, that day. He’d been slipping more often, since Keith had moved in with him and Mark. Going easier on his diet and his workouts. It’d taken too long to figure out how he could best maneuver around Keith and purge without him knowing anything was up. True, Shiro had cracked down on himself since Christmas—he hadn’t had a choice, after Tatsuya had said that he’d looked _“healthy,”_ which had obviously been code for, _“fat”_ —but the extra weight kept proving stubborn.

Painstakingly, Shiro had fought his way back down to 170 pounds by his and Ryou’s birthday. Before he and Keith had left for the Pier that Thursday morning, though, he’d seen _174.5_ on the bathroom scale. Not surprising—he _had_ been on an infuriating upswing, for the past two weeks—but disheartening, almost enough to keep him from showing Keith a semi-decent time. And Shiro had looked hideous because how else could he have looked. He’d gained a pound since the last time that he’d weighed himself, even though he’d gone nearly twenty-four hours without eating. All he’d taken in had been water, green tea, black coffee, Percocet, and Cuervo, and yet his body had rebelled against his attempt at taking back control, spelling Shiro’s previous failures out in horrible, disgusting pudge that everyone else had been simply too polite to mention.

Except the image of himself that smiled back at Shiro, now? He looked just fine. Better than that, he looked _thin_ , like he probably had an enviable body underneath his t-shirt—a loose, flimsy black number, with the cover art from Hole’s _Pretty On The Inside_ splashed across his chest in hot pink, white, and orange. Shiro remembered picking out that shirt. He’d found that alleged exercise in shaming himself hilarious. Keith had mostly been confused about the so-called punchline, and Shiro hadn’t understood what Keith had trouble making sense of.

Except staring at the photo evidence now, Shiro hunched in around himself. He couldn’t pick out anything in the picture that looked ugly, never mind looking as fat as he remembered feeling, on the Ides of March, 2012. It didn’t make sense—had someone altered the pictures and put up the fakes while Shiro had been out? Keith wouldn’t’ve done something so low, but had Mark done it? Had _Ryou_? Had—

Maurice banged on the door again and Shiro huffed. If he wouldn’t go away until Shiro humored him, then fine. Inhaling deeply, Shiro fixed his posture again. He steadied himself as much as possible. Setting his jaw, he thought of Obaasan, the way she always fought like a hellcat, and the words from her favorite noble house of ice and fire: _Unbowed. Unbent. Unbroken_ —exactly what Shiro needed to be.

 _“‘Tis some visitor entreating entrance at my chamber door,’”_ he deadpanned, arching a brow up at this man who thought that Shiro belonged to him. _“Usually, if people don’t text you back or come when you call? It means that they don’t want to see you.”_

Maurice scowled as if Shiro had denied him a pony on his birthday. _“Most people, Takashi, do not drink over a liter of tequila daily. Most people do not consume Vicodin like Tic-Tacs, or display such lackadaisical attitudes about eating properly._ ** _Most_** _people—”_

_“I don’t care what you think about most people. Or what you think at all. What I do to myself is none of your concern anymore.”_

_“Oh, truly? Is that why I find you wearing this, then?”_

Illustrating his point, Maurice wormed a finger into Shiro’s O-ring. He chuckled, teased his knuckle into the leather resting over Shiro’s adam’s apple—and then, he yanked hard on Shiro’s collar. Shiro winced, neck aching, unable to keep himself from getting tugged into the threshold. But he repeated the Martell words inside his head— _Unbowed. Unbent. Unbroken._ —and made himself glare up at Maurice.

_“I gave you this gift, Takashi, as a symbol of my_ ** _devotion_** _—”_

_“Oh, is_ **_that_ ** _what you’ve been showing me? See, that’s a pretty funny word for, ‘stalking’—”_

_“_ ** _You_** _were the one who wanted to wear this collar, you ungrateful whelp.”_ Narrowing his good eye, Maurice hissed, _“Since our first meeting and ever onward,_ ** _you_** _have pursued_ ** _me_** _. Fought with such spirit to win my favor. And now, you think that you can cast me aside with a mere text message and such callous—”_

 _“Yeah! I do, actually!”_ Eyes fixed on Maurice, Shiro jerked that huge, hairy hand away from his neck. He took a step backward, then another, and then a third, waiting with each one for Maurice to move or falter or do anything at all. _“Thanks for playing, now get directly out of my fucking_ ** _life_** _, Maurice. We’re finished. I’m_ ** _done_** _with you.”_

Maybe he wasn’t quick enough. Maybe he’d worked out too hard without meaning to, for real, not by any old arbitrary standard that someone else made up to dictate Shiro’s life. Maybe a lot of things—but when Shiro tried to slam the door, Maurice caught it. Glowering like the clouds outside, he pushed through. Strode over the threshold as if he owned the place.

He shut up the apartment with barely any sound, and although Shiro pulled himself up as tall as he could, Maurice seemed to tower over him. His broad shoulders could’ve filled the entire apartment, and his chest was a vast expanse. He raised his left hand, holding its hairy back level with Shiro’s face— _oh, no_. This could only end one way. But Shiro planted his feet and set his jaw. If Maurice wanted to smack him, then Shiro had to look him in the eye. Not that it’d get him anywhere, but—

He froze as Maurice ghosted the back of his hand down Shiro’s cheek. Reflexes screamed at him to lean into the touch, to rest his face on Maurice’s smooth, thick coat of hair. But Shiro couldn’t yield. Couldn’t budge. Couldn’t let Maurice have any leeway, not even when he caressed Shiro’s cheek so gently, giving him a soft, morose pout that, on anybody else, might’ve looked like genuine care.

_“Have you eaten today, Takashi?”_

_“None of your damn business.”_

_“Certainly not. ‘Business’ has nothing to do with this. It is a matter of personal concern—”_

_“Then_ ** _un_** _-concern yourself,”_ Shiro murmured. _“Just go away. Move on to your next barely legal fuck-toy, and forget all about me.”_

 _“Would that I_ ** _could_** _move on from you. Would that I could erase all your gentle cruelties, forget your wicked tenderness, and purge myself of how devastated and debased you make me feel.”_ Maurice tilted his head, watching Shiro curiously, like putting ants under a magnifying glass. He must’ve noticed the way that his word-choice made Shiro tense up. Yet, he didn’t smirk, or snap, or sneer. All he did was nudge Shiro’s fluff of hair up off his forehead. _“You of all people ought to know that the heart cannot be mastered and subdued so easily—especially not when its passions have been roused by one so exceptional as you. And of course, we can never forget the truth…”_

He grabbed Shiro by the nape, held him in place, and leaned in poisonously close. _“This was what you wanted to see happen. You probably decided on it before I’d even fucked you—”_

_“It wasn’t—No, I didn’t—Not like—”_

_“No, you couldn’t be content with wanting my body or what I could give you sexually. You couldn’t even want everything I had to give.”_ With a knife’s edge grin, Maurice pressed his forehead into Shiro’s. Made every inch of Shiro’s body burn like a bottle-rocket—but he didn’t know whether to fight or flee. He could only stand there, choking down a whine as Maurice let a barking chuckle out against his skin. _“Nothing would satisfy you, sweet boy. Not until you wrecked me as you’ve done and saw me reduced to ashes in your hands.”_

_“But I wasn’t—”_

  


* * *

  


Shiro gasps awake before his dream finishes playing back that sentence.

He knocks a hand off his shoulder. Jolts up, curls his legs close to his chest. Scuttles to the other end of the sofa, closer to the door, and—

“Whoa, whoa, hey!”

The voice isn’t deep enough to be Maurice’s. It’s more tender as well, with a slightly nasal timbre to it.

Yet, Shiro can’t place it. Can’t place who belongs to it. Grasping for any sense of where he is or what’s going on, he snatches up a throw pillow, runs the backs of his fingers over the embroidered picture of a flower. Nothing like what Maurice and Haxus had in their townhouse. The pillow’s too rustic, too homespun, too inoffensively _nice_. They never would’ve been caught dead with a thing like this, not even holding onto it for someone else. So, Shiro can’t be with them—

“Shiro?” the other voice prods with the care of someone handling the Dead Sea Scrolls. There’s something bright about the voice, but also something restrained. Sunlight trying to burst through a cover of dead-gray clouds. “Shiro, it’s okay. You’re okay, I promise. _Everything’s_ okay. It’s just me.”

Their hand settles on Shiro’s knee. As they give him a squeeze, he folds. Hunches in around himself with a whimper that he can’t hold back, clutching the pillow close. His arms won’t stop quivering. His chest and shoulders shake as if they don’t know how to stop. He isn’t with Maurice—he _can’t_ be with Maurice—but what if that’s a trick? What if the pillow is a lie? Everything that’s happened in the past two months—escaping Chicago, going to rehab, suffering through therapy, enduring support groups, imposing on Ryou and taking up his spare room, meeting Miranda and Ulaz and that Mitch guy from AA—what if it’s all been a dream? What if Shiro never left the townhouse? What if he’s really—

“Shiro, can you look at me? Pretty please?”

Wedged against the sofa’s armrest, Shiro nods. Reasonable request. Seems fair enough. And even if the other person’s working for Maurice, they aren’t the same as him. They could maybe be persuaded to let Shiro go—but only if he gives them what they want.

It takes a deep breath for Shiro to lift his head. Hands still gripping the pillow, he blinks down at a pair of wide, alert eyes, the same color as Ojiisan’s favorite whisky. They’re warmer than the liquor, though, and set in a skinny, pale face that looks a bit too long for itself, only broken up by a pair of round, wire-rim glasses. Golden tones litter the light brown hair that flops askew all over a largeish forehead—and Shiro nods again, even though the other person hasn’t said anything.

Dimly, Shiro recalls his Grandfather, mere days before the old man died, coming into his namesaked grandson’s bedroom, asking to hear the songs that his Kashi had been working on, especially the ones that he’d been writing.

He remembers Obaasan, during winter break of his freshman year at Columbia College, sitting with her Kashi in their little den upstairs, watching _Ju-On: The Grudge_ with the English subtitles turned off because he couldn’t focus on them, not when the evening had so thoroughly muddled his head. Balled up and crammed against the cushions, just as he is now, he took long swigs from a bottle of Johnnie Walker Black that had been her late husband’s and locked up in the basement besides; she reached out to him gently, just as the person Shiro’s looking at has done.

Shiro swallows thickly. “Matt.”

This earns him a nod, and something like hope sparks up behind those lenses. “Yeah, Shiro, exactly. Just me. You know where you are, right?”

“Keaton, Massachusetts. Kaltenecker University.” Tugging his fingers through his hair, Shiro narrows the field even further and says, “We’re in your father’s office. _You’re_ supposed to be fixing his computer—”

“Yeah, I have _no. idea._ who bollixed up what with the poor thing, but—”

“I fell asleep, didn’t I?” Again, Matt nods—and Shiro groans, cutting Matt off before he can say anything. “What happened? Was I twitching like a dog or something?”

“No, you just, y’know? You’ve got somewhere to be? With Ulaz? Which I wanted to wake you up for, so you wouldn’t miss it?”

“Oh, God, right.… I should get going for that, shouldn’t I?” Another nod from Matt, which means Shiro needs to pry himself off the sofa, needs to stand up like an adult and stretch out his back until he feels slightly less zombified. Less like he wants to go back to bed and just stay there indefinitely. “Anyway, thanks for making sure I didn’t sleep through it.”

“No problem, man, just…” Rising to his feet as well, Matt curls his hand around Shiro’s wrist. “Are you _sure_ you’re feeling okay? Like, up to meeting Hunk and Lance, and full-on getting coffee with them, and everything?”

Shrugging doesn’t get Matt to let go, or smile, or seem remotely calmer.

“I mean it, Shiro. I wouldn’t’ve even told Hunk and Lance that I know you if I didn’t think they were good guys—”

“Then why wouldn’t I meet them when you promised—”

“But they can be… a lot to take in. And adjust to, in general. Hunk, he’s a little less so? Like, he can be kinda nervous and fidgety, but he’s mostly pretty easy to get used to.” Gently squeezing Shiro’s wrist, Matt pouts. In silence, his expression begs Shiro to please take this question seriously, and please consider all the facts without rushing too much. “Lance can come on really strong. Hard and fast, and he doesn’t always know how he sounds, or if he’s overwhelming people…”

“I’ll let you know if I change my mind, okay?” Shiro tugs free of Matt’s hold. “But for now, I still want to get coffee.”

He doesn’t mention the fact that he’ll feel sick with himself if he doesn’t make it through this meeting. Or the fact that Matt’s other friends _shouldn’t_ want to meet him. Getting into an argument about that, at the moment, wouldn’t help. The mere thought of fighting with Matt about anything makes Shiro’s stomach turn. As he zips up his hoodie and lifts his messenger bag, it feels like a miracle that he doesn’t faint.

Down in his hip pocket, nestled against what remains of his thigh, Shiro’s phone feels like a ten-ton anvil. At last Thursday’s session, one of the goals Shiro agreed on with Ulaz was that he’d text Laura and Cameron, reach out to both of them for the first time since Maurice cut Shiro off from everyone but Ryou. As yet, Shiro has sent his old friends absolutely nothing. His heart races, just thinking about this failure. His lungs seize up, and guilt slimes up the inside of his throat.

The last time Shiro texted either Laura or Cameron, he was wasted. So far gone that he barely remembers anything concrete, not even from the call he made to Keith. Lying about how he’d gone to get help, begging Keith to please go have a life and please be happy.… Then, Shiro’s last text to Cameron was some nonsense about Ryou’s celebrity-crush on Taylor Lautner. In his last text to Laura, he wondered if her girlfriend would consider a threesome, if they ever found a sapphic Jon Snow.

Laura and Cameron don’t want to hear from him. Not after how many texts he didn’t respond to, for fear of what Maurice might’ve done, what sort of wrath he might’ve taken out on Keith. They’re better off without Shiro anyway. Just like Keith—they _must_ know this fact, because it’s _true_. Why would they want to deal with some simpering burnout, who used to be their friend but ghosted from their lives for months without an explanation, without a single word that he was still alive? Why would they want to deal with a useless, gray-eyed pretty boy, who ruins everything by being a miserable—

“You never said who you’d fuck from the Night’s Watch,” Matt pipes up. If not for the way he’s tapping at his father’s keyboard again, Shiro might think Matt could tell that Shiro’s letting his thoughts wander to grim places, that he needs some kind of intervention. “Come on. Which brother in black could get it.”

“Lord Commander Mormont.” Loosely tying his black scarf—another gift Aunt Naoko crocheted for him, once upon a time—Shiro doesn’t need to think about that answer. “I’d let the Old Bear bend me over a desk and do anything he wanted, okay. Any desk, any day, any time. I guess the desk is technically optional, I mean?” He shakes his head and runs his quivering fingers through his hair. “Point is: Jeor Mormont could get it.”

Strictly speaking, it’s not completely true. At least, not in the way that Shiro’s saying it. Right about now, he probably couldn’t get through having sex with anyone, much less enjoying it or making it worth the cost of breaking a solemn oath, probably sworn before a heart tree, in the weirwood grove just Beyond the Wall. If the Old Bear were going to abandon his vows like that, then he’d certainly want someone better than Shiro. He’d deserve to have someone better than Shiro, the same way that Keith does and always did.

Still, Shiro’s saying something more or less honest, and Matt’s weird question _is_ helping to remind him where he is: Massachusetts, not Chicago, in the present moment and not a memory, away from Maurice, where he belongs. When he glances back to the desk, Matt’s even grinning, which helps Shiro manage something adjacent to a smile.

“God, thank you for that.” His smile fades when Matt blinks bemusedly. “For not thinking it’s weird that I’d go to bed with Lord Commander Mormont. D’you have any idea how Ryou and our aunts and cousins would’ve reacted, if I’d said that to them?”

Quirking his shoulders and shaking his head, Matt supposes, “I think they… would’ve understood? Because the Lord Commander is a total daddy? And the bear is his noble house’s sigil for a reason? And everybody on that show can _get it_?”

“Not everybody could get it with me.”

“All right, sure, fine. _You_ wouldn’t let everybody get it because you’re gay and you’ve got standards since you’ve actually read the books—”

“ _You_ could read the books. They’re basically always in stock at Barnes and Noble.”

“But why would I want to, when I can just ask you whatever I’m confused about?” His expression begs Shiro to pretty please find Matt and his antics endearing. “Which is what I’m doing now, okay. Because I don’t understand why your family would get so weird about you letting Daddy Mormont bend you over a desk.”

 _Mostly because he’s an older man_ , Shiro briefly considers saying. _Because he’s old enough to be my father, the same way that Maurice was, and they’ve all decided that any older man I’m vaguely interested in is automatically a sequel to my ex._

Instead, he shrugs and tightens his scarf. “I don’t know, man. Obaasan never would’ve told me to shut up about it, though.”

“Someday, you’re gonna tell me more about your Grandma,” Matt says, “because from the little nuggets that you drop about her? She always sounds like a total fucking trip. In, like, a good way, I mean. In the _best_ way.”

For the last time, Shiro looks back to the desk. Huffing, he gives Matt a smirk. “In the meantime, text me which coffee-shop we’re going to. Your friends can’t meet me if I show up at the wrong place.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Songs featured/referenced in this chapter are:
> 
>   * “ **[Whatta Man](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=jsBt4QNIjV4)** ” by Salt-N-Pepa feat. En Vogue (Matt’s gratuitous Jon Snow thirst);  
>    
> 
>   * George Michael’s “ **[I Want Your Sex](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=vldh7oQD-a4)** ” (and specifically, an incident that gets discussed in chs. 9, 10, 11, 18, 19, and 22 of **_[But boys spring infernal](https://archiveofourown.org/works/11717574)_** , in which Shiro was wasted during his and Ryou’s 23rd birthday, and he and Keith had certain disagreements about the significance of each other’s song choices at karaoke—and Shiro got it into his beautiful head that “I Want Your Sex” would seem like a love song to literally anyone but him);  
>    
> 
>   * and not a song, but Shiro quotes Edgar Allan Poe’s “ **[The Raven](https://en.wikisource.org/wiki/The_Raven_and_Other_Poems/The_Raven)** ” at Sendak, once he opens the door.
> 

> 
> Also, the Hole album cover that Shiro references having on a t-shirt:  
> 
> 
> Also also, as established elsewhere in the series—and as depicted in the still-ongoing “ **[my fiction beats the hell out of my truth](https://archiveofourown.org/works/17065163)** ”—Shiro’s “Mitch” and Ryou’s “Dr. Iverson” are the same person. The disaster twins just haven’t realized this yet because, bless their hearts, they are _disasters_.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Two big notes for this chapter. First, Ryou is distinctly not being his best self when he first meets Hunk and Lance. True, there are reasons for it—some valid (e.g., he almost lost Shiro in the past few months and he has concerns, based on his interpretation of how Lance got Matt to arrange this meeting), and others less so (e.g., he’s being overprotective of his Kashi while Shiro isn’t around to take issue with his behavior; he’s worried because Shiro’s running late and taking that anxiety out on Lance; etc.)—but Ryou…… really goes over-the-top, here.
> 
> In-universe, Ryou does eventually need to answer for this and apologize. For now, though, the only real comeuppance is that Matt calls him out on it, because by the time Shiro joins the rest of them, Matt just wants things to be as drama-free as possible.
> 
> Second big note: Shiro spends a lot of this chapter having a therapy session with Ulaz, which ultimately has a happy, or at least positive/constructive, ending…… but on the way there, he and Ulaz discuss, amongst other things, **Shiro’s eating disorder, his past suicide attempt** (seen in ch. 6 of “[you’d kill me if you could stand the sight of blood](https://archiveofourown.org/works/12269214/)”), **current passive suicidal ideation** (i.e., that feeling when you don’t really want to die, but you also don’t really want to be alive), **explicit descriptions of what depression can feel like, and somewhat more tacit references to his abusive relationship with Sendak**.

“You can still back out, man. Any moment, no judgment, and I won’t hold it against you.”

Matt snorts, arches an eyebrow. “Getting cold feet? No shame in it, if you are.”

Slumping against the cushions of their back-corner booth, Lance sighs. “Why would I get cold feet about something that isn’t gonna happen? I’m just giving you another flipping chance to avoid humiliating yourself.”

“How very magnanimous of you. Almost makes me wish I’d waited—”

“Waited to decide to tell me that you’ve been lying your ass off?”

“ _Waited_ for a day that’s actually going bad for me.” With a hum that sounds both almost pensive and almost bored, Matt rests his cheek in his palm. “The way you’re being such a gentleman? Warms my heart, man. It really does. Could’ve done me some serious good, if I’d saved introducing you and Shiro for a day when I was really feeling down.”

Lance rolls his eyes and doesn’t bother trying not to sneer. “Haha, very funny. We’ll see who’s eating humble pie when Shiro never gets here.”

“It isn’t even time for him to show, yet—”

“Come on, how is it _not_ four-thirty already?”

“Because the concept of linear time is personally out to get you. Because the clocks are running backwards, just to make you miserable. Because you touch yourself at night and it makes Jesus cranky because he isn’t getting any sex. Pick whatever explanation makes you happy, Lance.” While digging through the pocket of his jeans, Matt lets out a yawn. “But fact remains: it’s _not_ four-thirty, and Shiro’s gonna get here.”

By way of illustrating his point, Matt holds up his phone. Lance pouts at his lockscreen—an admittedly nice fanart of Edward and Alphonse Elric from _Fullmetal Alchemist_ —and narrows his eyes at the digital clock readout at the top of Matt’s screen. _4:20_ —Lance would snicker at that, if not for the situation. It’s an inherently amusing time… except for the fact that Lance _needs_ the next ten minutes to magically disappear so he can either eat crow or prove Matt wrong. But until one of them gets to be right—

“All I’m saying,” Lance insists, “is that you knowing Shiro? Seems really damn unlikely.”

“You’ve made that clear. What I don’t understand, though?” With a shake of the head, Matt flips his bangs off his face. Instantly, stubbornly, they flop over his forehead again, and Matt grumbles in a way that’s almost cute. “Why would you keep trying to poke holes in what I’ve been telling you about—”

“Uh, I don’t know? Maybe because I don’t _believe_ you?”

“Because the way you’re going on? Harping over and over and over again that I can’t possibly know Shiro—”

“Which I’m obviously not convinced you do—”

“But you’ve never even _asked_ me about him, except to tell me I’m making things up—”

“ _Yeah_ , because I _get_ that you like attention, but come on, serious—”

“I’m just feeling, Lance?” As Matt holds up his hands in mock-surrender, his eyes get a soft, gleaming look about them. Vaguely, it makes Lance want to scream and shake Matt by the shoulders—but before he can do anything, Matt tells him, “The more and more you swear that I can’t possibly know Shiro? The more it sounds like, for whatever crazy reason or other, you don’t _want_ to know what the truth is.”

“I…” Lance starts, and trails off into a groan.

Despite what he’s been saying for weeks now—despite how he spent the whole walk over from campus swearing that Matt was having him on—Lance glances out the floor-to-ceiling window. Not that he can see much, when they’ve taken up a back-corner booth and he’s been made to sit so he’s facing the counter, not the glass. Even twisting himself around into a better angle, even making the most out of his peripheral vision and working it like he’s getting paid, Lance barely manages to see all the way down to the crosswalk.

Still, Lance squints outside and surveys the throng of faces wandering past the coffee-shop. He picks out a good mix of folks, for certain—but nobody tall enough to match what Lance has seen of Shiro. Never mind any of these strangers having Shiro’s diamond-cutting cheekbones or those eyes—Goddamn, no one even rivals those endlessly deep, transfixing eyes like gray moonstones or some other bullshit simile right out of _Paradise Bound_ , _Inconvenient Attachments_ , or _Attack of the Vampire Nymphomaniacs from Planet Zandarr_. All the fun, delightfully trashy books that everyone wants to mock Lance for reading like he’s really missing anything because he doesn’t like Jane Austen or Nathaniel Hawthorne or Geoffrey Fucking Chaucer.

 _Shiro wouldn’t treat me like that, probably_ , he muses, narrowing his eyes at some floppy-haired person in a scarlet sweatshirt, who’s leaning across the brick wall across the street and staring at their phone. They’re probably an okay person—albeit a weirdo whose only defense against the rain is putting up their hood—but they aren’t Shiro, and at the moment, Lance is fine with hating them for that.

Wordlessly grousing, Lance slumps onto his elbows. Nobody outside has the decency to be his idol, so he might as well scan the crowd of other patrons—but that doesn’t turn up much of anything. Nothing Lance hasn’t seen already, and definitely no signs of Shiro. But surveying The Daily Grind’s interior has a sort of comfort to it, Lance supposes. The uncommonly high ceilings and oddly hewn, off-black walls never fail to make him feel like he’s sitting in a cave, as if someone carved this place out of a mountain. Helps keep things from feeling too cramped when customers start piling up.

Right now, Lance counts thirty-seven of them, excluding Hunk, who’s next in line to order everybody’s drinks. Six baristas buzz about behind the bar, plus the two currently working the registers. A ninth carries a large plastic tub around the floor, flitting between the tables to collect all the plates and mugs and silverware that people didn’t clean up on their own. When he begs off to the restroom and leaves Matt tapping at his phone, Lance sneaks a few extra singles into the tip jar at the pickup counter. Sure, he could use them himself, but having worked in food service before, he can’t help but feel for the baristas.

By the time he skulks back to the table, Hunk’s gotten himself comfortable and brought the drinks: his own toffee latte, Matt’s super-rich hot chocolate with multiple shots of hazelnut-flavored syrup and extra whipped cream, and Lance’s pumpkin spice latte. He added baked goods to the order—an excellent life-choice, given the quality of the sweets at the Daily Grind—but Lance doesn’t look too hard at the little plates or ask what Hunk decided on. Before anything else can happen, Lance needs to put a good shot of his latte up on Instagram.

 _perfection_ , Lance writes in the caption, at the risk of summoning Matt to reply with a screencap from _X-Men: First Class_ like he really thinks he’s clever. _nothing like a #pumpkinspicelatte to make november days feel brighter #selfcare #bestlife #teamtreatyoself #nofilter #winning_

Leaning back onto the table, he hums and looks to Matt. “So, what’s Shiro’s middle name?”

Matt arches an exceedingly quizzical eyebrow. “All the world of questions you could ask about him, and _that’s_ the one you go for?” A shrug makes him sigh—or maybe that’s from the text that makes his phone _ding!_ —but at least he tells Lance, “Shiro doesn’t have a middle name. Not as far as I know, anyway. But he did take Sebastian as his Confirmation name, ‘cause his Grandfather insisted on him and his brother getting at least partially raised Catholic.”

“Okay, that’s like the bazillionth time you’ve mentioned siblings, so I gotta ask: since when does Shiro have a brother.”

“Since they were born, I guess? Or before that, depending on what you believe. They’re twins.”

“Then how come Shiro’s never mentioned him on his channel?”

“Because Ryou’s… Not really reclusive? He just prefers not being in the spotlight. And Shiro respects that.”

Mouth screwed up in a pout, Lance puts his chin in his palm. “Chocolate, vanilla, or strawberry, which would he pick?”

“D’you mean that literally, or like, in a sexual innuendo way?”

“Okay, wait, I understand how ‘vanilla’ fits into that? And I guess that ‘chocolate’ could work, except in a way that’s kinda racist? But…” Hunk furrows his brow. “Matt, what the Hell kind of sexual innuendo would _‘strawberry’_ mean?”

“I dunno, I just thought Lance might have something in mind.” As Matt slouches back into the cushions, he takes a long sip of his hot chocolate. “Anyway, Shiro likes strawberries best. But also… don’t ask him about that, when he gets here? Please don’t.”

Lance’s nose twitches of its own accord. “Why not?”

“Because of reasons that I’m not at liberty to talk about—”

“A _very_ likely story—”

“ _Especially_ since I don’t even know for sure what’s really—like? I hope I’m _wrong_ , but—”

“Or maybe you’re completely full of shit and just—”

“ _Hey, Ryou!_ ” Matt’s shout makes Lance flinch. As it rings off the walls and makes several other patrons stare at them, Matt perks up in his seat. Because he needs to exacerbate the situation, Matt holds an arm up and waves his hand around like. “Ryou, over here!”

Scrunching up his face, Lance looks all over the coffee-shop, but doesn’t spot the alleged twin brother until “Ryou”’s closing in on their booth with a drink in hand. Whether he’s the real deal or not, he’s tall and broad enough in the shoulders to share some of Shiro’s DNA. (Granted, it’s hard for Lance to tell from Youtube videos alone, but Shiro always seems like he’s got a perfect body to swoon against. Maybe not so much in some of his more recent vids, because being fair, he’s looked a bit worse for wear in those—but still, Matt _did_ say that Shiro’s been sick or something.)

Armed for the weather, “Ryou” wears a heavy black peacoat and a violet scarf that looks homemade, knitted or crocheted with love in every stitch. His black hair seems like it’s trying not to seem messy, like maybe “Ryou”’s spent the entire day fighting to keep it in some kind of order. He carries a black messenger bag with him, strap slung across his stomach, and a damp umbrella in the hand that isn’t holding his cardboard-and-plastic to-go cup. Thoughts racing and crashing all over each other, Lance pouts at “Ryou”’s midsection, wrinkles his nose as if this might clear up everything that his junkyard brain’s decided to feel confused about when it’s seriously not an issue.

He tries not to stare while “Ryou” tugs a chair over from a nearby table—whether or not “Ryou” actually is Shiro’s brother, Lance doesn’t want to be _that_ rude—but at the same time, something about this doesn’t add up. Not that “Ryou” looks bad, now that Lance can tell? But if he’s supposed to be related to Shiro, then “Ryou” is _not_ what Lance expected.

Thing is, Shiro might be one of the skinniest people Lance has ever seen. Hell, Lance has buried himself in Shiro’s comments sections some days, because all the people who think he’s hot make Lance feel less hideous, with his lanky legs and scrawny, nonexistent ass. Every time he’s thought he spotted a little extra around Shiro’s waistline, scrutiny and repeat viewings revealed that Shiro was just wearing multiple layers and sitting oddly. More than once, he’s seemed to deliberately hide his stomach, whether through posture or the way he holds his acoustic guitar. Even so, Shiro has a thigh-gap and whenever Lance has caught a glimpse of his hip-bones, they’ve looked nothing short of _cut_.

“Ryou,” though, is closer to Hunk’s size than Shiro’s without a sign of muscle anywhere. He wears his top untucked, and when he stretches and works a crick out of his back, he gives Lance a peek at some pale, light brown chub. Even before he sits down, “Ryou”’s buttons strain around his belly and his shirt wrinkles from trying to keep all of him contained. Lance holds his breath as “Ryou” settles in his chair, and chokes down a sigh of secondhand relief when “Ryou” doesn’t pop any of his buttons off.

(—And maybe a little first-hand relief as well. Lance’s impulses already want him to scream, _“Hey, I just met you, and this is crazy, but please raw me hard against a wall”_ at “Ryou.” He would absolutely lose his poor, bisexual mind if “Ryou” burst his buttons.)

“Okay, so you found a random hottie and talked him into helping you,” Lance’s mouth spits out before he knows which way is up, much less how to make himself shut up. Craning his neck, he pouts at Matt, who mostly looks befuddled. Which should probably make Lance _stop_ , and yet— “All this proves so far? Is that you’ve been holding out on me when you _said_ you’d let me know if any of your sexy other friends were single.”

A heavy sigh that sounds so much like rolling eyes, and then a smooth voice drawls, “I take it you’re the one called _Lance_?”

There’s something familiar about that voice, but also something different and new, as if Lance heard it in a half-remembered dream, or someone’s using vocal distortion tools to pull a fast one on him. But he can’t focus too much on the specifics. Not with Matt and Hunk cringing in the way they always do when they think Lance is choking from shoving his foot so far into his mouth. While Hunk mostly knots his brow and tries to hide inside his mug of latte, Matt plasters on a wobbly, apologetic grin.

“Sorry, man, he’s… He didn’t really… I already warned your brother: Lance can be a lot—” 

“Yeah, I’m kinda getting that energy from him. There’s a feeling—”

“But I told Shiro, and he swore up and down that he’d be fine, so?” As Matt pushes his bangs out of his eyes, he lets slip a distinctly whiny noise. “Lance, buddy, can you please, I don’t know? _Look_ at Ryou more closely? Before you decide anything about him being exactly who I told you he is?”

As much as Lance wants to huff about how he’s checked Matt’s hot friend out already, he’d probably be rude and in the wrong for doing that. Taking in Ryou’s face, Lance immediately sees what Matt meant. Right there, narrowed at Lance and clear as anything, even in The Daily Grind’s perpetually too-dim lighting, Ryou’s eyes gleam like gunmetal, like polished gray moonstones, like any of the ridiculous similes from all of the fun, delightfully trashy bargain bin paperback erotica that everybody picks on Lance for reading. God, he shouldn’t stare—but it’s hard enough for Lance to hold back his starstruck, banshee screeching.

“I, you… That’s, like… But are you—Not that you _would_ , but—Are you _serious_ , I’m—What in the even, or the ever, I’m—your _eyes_?” Lance makes himself inhale deeply and hopes like Hell it helps. “Your eyes are, like? _Exactly_ like Shiro’s.”

“Yeah, thanks, I know. We got them from our Mom.” Drumming thick fingertips along his cup, the hottie known as Ryou Shirogane hums so thoughtfully, it makes Lance want to stroke his chin like all the philosophy majors do when they’re trying to sound smart. “We _used_ to be able to perfectly swap places with each other, when we were kids. But if you follow Kashi’s channel as avidly as Matt says you do—”

“If anything, man? I’ve been diplomatically understating how much—”

“Then I’m sure you can see why Kashi and I can’t exactly pull his former favorite twin stunt anymore.”

“Uh, yeah, like?” Hope springs eternal in Lance Esparza’s chest, and trying to get back on a semi-decent foot with his idol’s brother, he shoots Ryou his best, most charming grin. “For one thing, he doesn’t dress as well as you do, I mean? Not that he looks _bad_ or anything, but?” Wolf-whistling would probably exacerbate things, so Lance tamps down on that impulse and makes himself smile harder. “He’s really jeans and t-shirts, but you’re really… Like, you’ve got a better sense of style.”

Ryou arches a brow so high, it’s a miracle he keeps it attached to his forehead. “Well, I meant the fact that I’ve been the fat twin since we were, like, twelve or thirteen,” he says, almost sneering and sending a chill to the pit of Lance’s chest. “But thanks for pretending to be tactful, I guess?”

Wincing, Matt slumps away from Lance and drops against Hunk’s shoulder. “So, hey, uh? Why don’t we—” He shuts up when Ryou asks what time it is, then frowns when he checks his phone. “Okay, uh, Shiro’s running twelve minutes late? He’s—okay, well, now he’s _thirteen_ minutes late, but—”

“He’s still coming, though, right?” Hunk doesn’t whine, but it sounds like he kinda wants to.

“I think so? That’s what he said when I saw him. And when I texted him where to come.”

Ryou’s brow knots up like some invisible Boy Scout’s going for a badge. “Have you heard from him since his last text?”

Paling ever so slightly, Matt shakes his head. “I sent him one text to let him know where we’re sitting? And another to make sure that he’s okay? Especially, y’know, since he was, like? With how he gets and where he was before this—”

“He didn’t skip, at least. He sent me a passive-aggressive selfie from the waiting room—”

“Well, that’s reassuring? Right? We’re feeling reassured by this?”

“Considering Miranda had to meet him there, the first time? And then she needed to get their initial conversation started because Kashi didn’t want to be there, so he was acting like… Y’know, like—”

“Like a gay, jumpy, Japanese-American bunny? A gay, jumpy, Japanese-American bunny who’d rather sing his feelings all over Youtube?”

“I was gonna say he was acting like a brat, but… Yeah, your way is nicer. And you’re not wrong. And we’re definitely feeling reassured that he didn’t skip today.” Although he nods, Ryou also lets his shoulders droop. “I’d feel _more_ reassured if he were _here_ already, but—”

“Yeah, well, you and me both, but…” Matt’s smile gleams with so much optimism, it almost makes Lance feel like his friend is trying to show him up on purpose. “Until he gets here, _you_ can get to know Hunk and Lance? Or just, like, how’d _your_ day go, man?”

“I have never been so glad that I’m not teaching classes until next semester.” Sighing like he needs a nap or twenty, he explains, “The more I hear about this one freshman who’s making life Hell for Lauren and Jim? The more nervous I get about the _teaching_ part of my job title.”

“Oh God, what’s the horror story of the day? I mean, if you _want_ to talk about it?”

“Fairly standard overall, I guess? The kid’s a total nightmare. He’s argumentative, difficult, and there’s only one reason I’m not calling him a real piece of work—which I do _not_ want to discuss,” Ryou adds, giving Matt a pointed look that must mean something important to the two of them. “If this little shit weren’t getting perfect or near-perfect grades on everything he hands in, he’d’ve been outright failed weeks ago. Which, y’know, only makes him even more secure in the belief that he is right, his prof is wrong, and everything should go the way he wants, just because he wants it.”

Slouching in his seat, Ryou shrugs. “Anyway, I guess he went even more over-the-top than usual today, so…”

Lance downs a good sip of his latte, then puts another smile on. “So, you’re, like? A graduate student? Or just a TA?”

“I’m going for my PhD in physics, yeah.”

“Oh, dude, _physics_? God, do grad students get to avoid that Dr. Iverson guy?” In the face of Ryou nodding and quirking his eyebrow again, Lance heaves a sigh that should sound deeply, marvelously sympathetic. “Oh, jeez, no, you probably have to deal with him even more than we did in the undergrad classes.”

“I suppose we must.” Sipping his coffee, Ryou doesn’t take his eyes off Lance—and yes, God, this is Lance’s _chance_. He can salvage this. He can make this work and get Ryou to like him. All he needs to do is handle the question, “What brought all this on?”

“I mean, it just _sucks_ for you guys that you have to deal with him more, like? He’s the _wooooorst._ ” By way of emphasizing his point, Lance groans. Beside him, Matt makes another wincing sound. He even jostles Lance’s shoulder—but no, no, this is good. Lance is bonding with Ryou over a common enemy, they’re going to be friends, and everything is going to be perfect. “I don’t even know what I did, but I swear, Dr. Iverson completely _hates_ me. For no good reason!”

Ryou nods. “Oh, wow. Does he really.”

“He _does_ , really! I had him last year, and he was always so _strict_. And _harsh_. One time, he totally kicked me out of class because it was first thing in the morning and I forgot to set my phone on vibrate. First thing in the morning! On a Monday! And Veronica—she’s one of my big sisters, the one closer to me in age—and she hadn’t even changed my text alert to the porno moaning, yet!” A roll of the eyes, a quick shake of the head—aggrieved student perfection, if Lance does say so, himself. “Like, class had barely even started, and it’s not my fault that I forgot. Come on, Iverson, how is any of that _fair_?”

Keening softly, Matt flops face-first onto the table. He thwacks his forehead on his arms without explaining anything. Fortunately, he doesn’t knock his mug over. But he also doesn’t stir when Hunk rubs at his back, much less say what the cheese he thinks he’s doing—but at the same time! Ryou’s still watching Lance with an inscrutable expression and his head tilted curiously—and heck with Matt for now: Lance has a new friend to finish winning over.

“I just, like? Arguing with him didn’t get anywhere, I didn’t get to stay, and apparently, everyone else decided to hate me that day because Hunk?” Since Matt skimped on the actual facts introductions, Lance nods in Hunk’s direction. “He’s the best, because he was the only person who let me copy down their lecture notes.”

“That sounds like it was _so_ rough for you.”

“Yeah! It _was_! And I didn’t even do anything wrong, right? Dr. Iverson is just the _worst_.” But once he heaves his admittedly Dramatic sigh, Lance gives Ryou a small, sympathetic smile. “That probably doesn’t even get at _half_ of what he’s like for you grad students, right? I mean, if he’s this mean to undergrads, I can’t even _imagine_ what he puts all of you guys through.”

Round of applause. Standing ovation on opening night. Praise from the director and all the co-stars. Rave reviews from audiences. Accolades upon accolades from every reviewer, especially the ones who admit that he basically saved the movie from itself. One hundred-percent fresh on RottenTomatoes.com. Lance Esparza would like to thank the Academy and, of course, his beloved mama.

“Actually, I’ve never had a problem with Dr. Iverson,” Ryou says as if he’s commenting on the weather.

Lance almost chokes on his mouthful of pumpkin-spice deliciousness. “Wait, you mean, like? Because you’re… in a different specialty or something? So you’ve just never had a class with him?”

“Oh, no, I’ve had _plenty_ of classes with him. He’s my dissertation advisor, actually. And my boss. Mentor, you could say.” Ryou sips his coffee with an air like he’s some vengeance deity’s representative on Earth and Lance’s response could make or break literally everything ever in the entire history of human existence. “Personally, I’ve always found Dr. Iverson to be gruff but kind, tough but fair, prone to high expectations but only because he wants to help his students grow—and a brilliant man, besides.”

“Oh, I… Uh…” Lance sinks in the booth, fights to keep looking Ryou in the eye. “I didn’t—”

“Aside from that, Dr. Iverson has been helping me and Kashi with some personal problems, lately, which is _good_ , because we’ve both been in over our heads, here.” The ice cold customer service smile that twists up Ryou’s lips gives Lance the distinct impression that he should learn to sleep with one eye open. “So, no, I don’t think that Dr. Iverson is terrible. I’d say he’s one of the greatest men I’ve ever met.”

Down on the table, Matt’s groaning finally makes sense. Jesus, he was trying to _warn_ Lance, and Lance didn’t even stop to ask him—

“Also, for the record, _Lance_?” As Ryou scoots closer to the table, his eyes gleam like he has an actual gun in his pocket and this is the story of how Lance died. “Kashi says that he wants to meet you, and that’s fine. But if you try _any_ of the harassment that you’ve been dumping on Matt with my brother? You _will_ regret it. Because I will _not_ let that fly.”

“Whoa, hey!” Despite his indignation, Matt stays on the table. He only shifts his head so that he doesn’t end up talking to the table. “I never said that Lance was _harassing_ me, okay?”

“Of course you didn’t. Because you’re very polite, like that—”

“Or maybe because Lance just _wasn’t harassing me_ —”

“I don’t want—I’m not gonna cause—I don’t want there to be any kind of _issue_ , okay?” Lance’s insides squirm as he draws Ryou back into glaring him. Hugging himself, Lance swallows thickly and tries to straighten up his posture. “I didn’t mean to harass Matt—”

“You _didn’t_!” With a huff, Matt knocks his knee into Lance’s, but only hard enough to give Lance the feeling of support. “The most you’ve done is give me a hard time. _Innocently!_ As friends! Nothing more!”

“I’ve just…” Lance inhaled deeply and balls a hand up in the sleeve of his green jacket. Making himself look Ryou in the eye, he says, “I’ve followed Shiro’s music for _so long_ , I don’t want to harass him—I’d _never_ want to do that—he’s just? I look up to him so much, and his music’s helped me through some rough patches, all I wanna do is meet him, okay? Like, maybe get to know him, if he wants?”

“And like I told Shiro? I wouldn’t have even _told_ Hunk and Lance that I know him if I didn’t think that they’re good guys—”

“If my opinion counts at all?” Hunk holds up one hand like he’s volunteering to answer a question in class. “Lance really _is_ a good guy, okay? He’s a bit much, and he comes on strong, but he’s been my best friend since—”

“Here’s the long and short of everything, _Lance_.” Narrowing those cold, hard eyes, Ryou makes Lance shiver. “Kashi and I don’t have too many other people. We have our aunts and cousins, but he is all that I have left, out of our immediate family. You mentioned sisters, right?” He waits long enough for Lance to nod. “You love your sisters, don’t you—”

“Oh my God, are you gonna have Marimar and Ronnie killed?” Hunk shudders too, when Ryou gapes at him. Which sucks, but at least Lance isn’t alone in getting freaked right out. With a soft noise, almost a whimper, Hunk shrugs. “I don’t know, you just seem… angry?”

“I’m an American graduate student,” Ryou sneers, “not some belly-to-the-ground Yakuza _thug_.” Turning back to Lance, he adds, “And I am not going to hurt your sisters. Or any other family you have. I merely wanted to ask if you love them.”

“Of course I do! With every ounce of my stupid heart and soul, okay?”

“So, the same amount of love I have for Kashi, then. That’s good—”

“Yeah, okay, sure? I get it, you love him, you’re looking out for him—”

“Damn right, I’m looking out for him.” Nothing about Ryou’s tone leaves any room for argument. There’s barely any room for warmth, and _fuck_ , the intensity of that glare is gonna make Lance _sick_. “My brother means everything to me. So, if you use him, come for him, manipulate him, take advantage, or otherwise hurt him? You will be dealing with me. Do I make myself perfectly clear.”

“Yep!” Lance squeaks, voice jumping a few notes higher. “Absolutely _crystal_ , dude!”

Humming, Ryou nods and settles back in his seat. Apparently, this answer’s satisfied him, though he scowls as he glances around the coffee-shop. Over on Matt’s other side, Hunk frantically tears off pieces of his cinnamon roll—which Lance would join him in doing, if he didn’t feel like anything sweet could set him off and make him vomit worse than Linda Blair in _The Exorcist_ all over The Daily Grind’s men’s room. Things go quiet at the table, though, which… helps? Lance guesses?

Well, it mostly grates on his nerves like sandpaper, but it’s better than being threatened.

“Okay, no one else is gonna say it, so I’ll be the bad cop…” As Matt pushes off the table, Lance considers telling him to stow it, lest they collectively piss Ryou off again. But he doesn’t get the words out, so Matt plows into telling Ryou, “I get it, Shiro’s been through a _lot_ , recently. I get it that you’re worried. But what the _fuck_ is with you, taking that out on Hunk and Lance? _They’re_ not the reason why Shiro’s running late. _They’ve_ done nothing—”

“And I’m invested in keeping it that way—”

“So do what your _brother_ would do and fucking treat them decently. _God!_ ”

Matt flops back into the booth hard, letting out a heated sigh and making Lance wish he could manage an actual smile. Since he can’t, he nudges his knee into Matt’s underneath the table, so Matt knows that Lance appreciates him.

God, he _really_ hopes that Shiro’s the nice twin. Hell, even being the “at least he’s not an asshole” twin will do just fine by Lance.

  


* * *

  


“Hmm. I do not suppose you wish to discuss your shirt?”

Burrowing into the cushion of Ulaz’s sofa, Shiro makes himself shrug at his therapist. “Don’t suppose I do,” he mutters to the carpet. “There isn’t much to talk about.”

Honestly, there’s nothing about the t-shirt worth discussing. Shiro’s drowning in the black cotton fabric, but that’s true of everything he owns. Only a belt keeps his jeans up lately, even his smallest pairs. At that, Shiro’s poked extra holes into his belts’ fake leather, so maybe it doesn’t count. Underneath the top layer, he’s got two long-sleeved t-shirts, both of them black. Likewise, he wears a pair of black leggings under his jeans, even though they’re one of his few pairs whose knees remain intact. On the cushion beside him sit his hoodie, his cardigan, and his heavy black peacoat. If there’s anything worth discussing about Shiro’s clothes, then it’s how extensively he’s covered up.

Yet, Ulaz arches a thick, immaculate eyebrow. He points one of his long, spider-leg fingers at himself and his Oxford blue sweater-vest, traces an invisible line. Humoring him, Shiro looks down at his shirt, at the lavender oval splashed across his chest with _“Hole”_ written in its center. Beneath that logo, in stark white font, letters spell out, _“Live Through This.”_

“That seems a curiously hopeful sentiment. Or, if you mean it as a command for yourself, then I sense a great deal of hope underscoring those words.”

With another quirk of his shoulders, Shiro curls up one leg, hugging his shin and pressing his thigh to his chest. His old sneakers sit on the floor. Gray wolves run up the sides of his silvery-white socks, and over his feet, gray letters spell out, _“Winter is coming.”_

When Ulaz pointedly clears his throat, Shiro shrugs. “It’s not about any sentiment, really. I just like that album.”

“I am hardly surprised.” Ulaz hums thoughtfully, leaning on the armrest of his very fine chair. His high, carved-out cheekbone rests so perfectly against the back of his hand, Shiro would almost think that Ulaz had been sculpted by Michelangelo. But before Shiro can ponder that too much, Ulaz says, “Several of Courtney Love’s lyrics seem like they might emotionally resonate with you. ‘I’m Miss World, watch me break and watch me burn. No one is listening, my friends.’”

Shiro gasps. If Ulaz hears, then he doesn’t acknowledge it. As Shiro leans forward, propping his chin on his knee, Ulaz keeps reciting in a tone that’s half-removed, but not quite all the way to clinical: “‘Every time I sell myself to you, I feel a little bit cheaper than I need to.’”

 _How does he_ ** _know_** _that?_ , Shiro wonders, fingers quivering as he worries them down the seam on his calf.

“‘You’re hungry, but I’m starving’—”

There’s no way that Ulaz can just _know_ this. No way that he can have such certainty about which specific lyrics off of _Live Through This_ hit Shiro hardest, get to the deepest places for him, make him feel the most. Ulaz can’t know how many times Shiro has listened to these songs, or what he’s felt while hearing them, because Shiro hasn’t talked about it—he has only barely admitted to liking Hole, before today’s session—and, as far as he knows, psychic powers are not real.

“‘He keeps you in a box by the bed, alive but just barely.’”

Shiro squeezes his leg. Digs his fingertips into his flesh, or muscle, or whatever it is anymore. There, that pressure: it’s real and Shiro can cling to it. Ground himself in it. Because it’s _here_ , it’s _now_ , it’s something that he’s doing to himself, right this very second. It doesn’t come from far off, from some memory that Shiro would bleach clean out of his mind, if he could do that. Since he can’t, though, Shiro’s left with scars, most of them metaphysical and all of them easily hidden. Underneath his many layers, Shiro’s chest throbs, right below the cigarette burns Maurice left. God, this would be so much easier if he’d ever marked up Shiro’s _face_ , something that Shiro couldn’t cover up—

“‘I want to be the girl with the most cake,’” Ulaz says, preemptively pulling Shiro out of his mental reverie, nearly purring, and crossing his unfathomably long, spindly legs at the knees. Fixing those clear, deep-set blue eyes on Shiro, he balances a manila folder and a clipboard on his lap, with who knows how many pages of notes about what kind of headcase he’s dealing with. “‘I love him so much, it just turns to hate’—”

“‘ _He only loves those things because he loves to see them break_ ,’” Shiro intones, singing the line because he can’t _not_ sing the song that Ulaz picked—just as he can’t help correcting Ulaz’s choice of line, opting instead of the one that he’s feeling more right now. While his voice slips into the familiar melody, Shiro drops his gaze to the mottled gray carpet. _“‘I fake it so real I am beyond fake. And someday, you will ache like I ache.’”_

Ulaz chuckles, and it sounds the way that sunshine is supposed to feel. “Choosing ‘Doll Parts’ might constitute cheating, considering that you have mentioned your fondness for it in previous sessions.”

“I don’t think it’s cheating. That’s one of my favorite songs.”

“It is quite an emotive song. An apt portrait of melancholy and vitriol alike. Did I miss any other lyrics from the album that stick with you, in particular?”

“How did you even _guess_ those—Okay, not _guess_ , when you kinda knew, but, like? You recited them _perfectly_?”

“Answer my question, Shiro, and I will answer yours.” When he looks up, Ulaz’s eyes glimmer with something suspiciously like mischief. It’d be strange behavior for a therapist, except Ulaz has done this at every session they’ve had so far. “Discussing what matters to you is one of our many purposes, in these sessions. At present, that seems to mean Hole.”

That sounds like a ruse to make Shiro open up if he’s ever heard one.

It sounds like the sort of game that Lynn from the clinic in Minnesota wanted to play, every time she tried to ask Shiro why he likes _Onibaba_ so much, what he sees in _El espinazo del diablo_ that so intently holds his interest, and how many times upon untold times has he watched _Jennifer’s Body._ The strategy behind it can barely be so-called, because Ulaz’s obvious goal is to glean more personal information about Shiro, based on what he says he likes about _Live Through This_ and its songs.

But failing to cooperate will go down in Shiro’s chart, same as anything he says aloud but possibly as a black mark. Worse, Ulaz might see Shiro’s hypothetical silence as a sign that his case is well and truly hopeless—and Shiro really doesn’t want to look for a new therapist. Searching for a dietitian will be difficult enough, if Shiro can’t get out of that. He doesn’t need to hunt down another healthcare provider when there’s no good reason for him to scare Ulaz off of dealing with him.

Curling up his other leg, Shiro nods. “I mean, ‘Miss World’ is good, yeah. You got ‘Jennifer’s Body’ and ‘Asking For It.’ Obviously, ‘Doll Parts’—not a lot of songs are as special to me as that one. Like, of course there are a lot of songs that _are_ special to me? Fiona Apple, The Mountain Goats, Elliott Smith… But ‘Doll Parts,’ and ‘Careless Whisper’? They’re it. They’re the top. They’re just…”

He trails off into a sigh. Shakes his head. Kneads his fingers at his shin because none of this is answering Ulaz’s actual question. Besides, he already knows about Shiro and George Michael. They covered that on Tuesday, when Shiro wore his shirt with the cover of the “Careless Whisper” single on it.

“But off _Live Through This_ , you missed ‘Violet,’ y’know…” He could sing—but if he tries with this song, he might start screaming. So, instead, Shiro settles for reciting, “‘Go on, take everything, take everything, I want you to.’ Or there’s, ‘I told you from the start just how this would end. When I get what I want, then I never want it again.’”

It’s a telling lyric, perhaps too much so. With it spoken and acknowledged, Ulaz could ask Shiro about all the times when he’s debated that line with Kira, or Laura, or Aunt Satomi. He could ask about all the times when Shiro and Obaasan riffed off each other about it, going back and forth with feelings and impressions, never really getting to a point but always building up new playing card houses of understanding. He could ask about all the times when Mom waited for the song to end before pointing out that her Kashi has his music turned up far too loudly and asking him to turn it down, and the way her expression always darkened when that one line played, as if she had some secret knowledge pent up inside of her that the song threatened to unlock.

Ulaz could ask how many times Shiro’s ever hummed that song in between fevered rounds of purging, how many times he’s muttered the lyrics while pushing himself harder at the gym or kneeling on some frigid, unforgiving bathroom floor. Ulaz could ask about Maurice and how Shiro sometimes closed his eyes, letting “Violet” play in his head while Maurice did whatever he wanted with his body. Ulaz could ask about Keith, about that horrible, wonderful, telltale line— _“I told you from the start just how this would end”_ —and how it so painfully fits what Shiro did to him.

Instead, Ulaz’s pen scribbles something down, and he nods for Shiro to continue.

“How about ‘Softer, Softest’?” Shiro tugs on his hair and once again, skips the singing. “‘I’ve got a blister from touching everything I see. The abyss opens up and it steals everything from me.’”

“Mhm. Paints a vivid picture, don’t you think?”

“Sure does. Wish I could write something half that good.”

“What about your own lyrics leave you feeling—”

“‘Plump’ is, like? So true that it’s painful?” Shiro frowns at the frenzied movements of Ulaz’s pen. For all Shiro cranes his neck, he can’t make out a word of what Ulaz has written down. God, maybe this next, self-eviscerating honesty will making him happy. “I mean, I know it’s probably about Frances Cobain, but come on, right? How could I not pick out lyrics like, ‘They say I’m plump, but I throw up all the time’?”

Ulaz quirks his shoulders without committing to a full-on shrug. “It is not my place to determine what you do or do not identify with, or to dictate your emotional responses. I prefer to hear these things in your own words.”

“My own words get people hurt. Maybe not _killed_ —or I hope they haven’t done that—but it doesn’t _matter_ , okay?” Shiro shouldn’t say things like this. Regardless of how much these feelings burn—regardless of the feeling like he has gunshots and popcorn bursting inside his chest—regardless of the way silence makes his blood feel like boiling oil, Shiro needs to keep this nonsense locked away where it can’t hurt anyone important. But his mouth keeps going, words springing forth without an end in sight: “None of it matters. Because _my own_ words aren’t really mine. They’re barely even _words_. They’re pain, and spikes, and misery, and fire, but in the most uninspired way.”

Hugging his shins, Shiro bows his head, buries his face in his knees. With the back of his neck bared like this, he only feels cold. Enough to send a shiver rushing through him, hard and deep and bone-rattling. There’s a thick, heavy weight behind him, pushing him down and holding him in place—except for how there’s not. It isn’t there. Except it might be. But it isn’t. But what if it is, what everything is falling—

“My own words are self-indulgent, plagiaristic, post-adolescent drivel,” he whispers, tensing all over, holding his body as still as he can. “Bogus and affected. They’re garbage. Basically worthless.”

Shiro knows these phrases. Knows where he’s heard them before. Squeezing his knee, Shiro tries to tune out the guttural chuckle, tries to ignore the slithery sensation against his skin. Rubbing his fingers over his coarse denim, he tries to banish from his mind the smell of Sobranie Black Russian cigarettes and the musky, leathery, peppery scent that Maurice always attributed to Penhaligon’s Endymion eau de cologne. None of that is happening. None of it is _real_. Not anymore. Shiro got out, like Ryou said. He ran, unbound himself from everything about Chicago, and now he’s _safe_.

“Oh, ‘Gutless’ has good lyrics, too,” he says, and swallows thickly. Yes. Hole. Good. Focus on that. Talking about Hole will make these ghosts of Maurice go away. “‘You can try to suck me dry, but there’s nothing left to suck.’ God, if I don’t know how that feels.”

Inhaling deep and slow, Shiro forces himself to meet Ulaz’s gaze. He takes in the details of his therapist’s brown, distinguished face, his long, slender body with its broad shoulders and barely discernible waist. Even seated, Ulaz can’t disguise his height. Second only to Maurice, he must be one of the tallest people Shiro’s ever met—and that thought makes his grip tighten on his leg. Fingers drive further into his muscle. But Shiro winces, and he gulps, and he nods without knowing why or who the gesture’s for.

But his name is Takashi Shirogane; he knows that much. He’s in Keaton, Massachusetts. Maurice isn’t here. Like as not, Maurice remains in Chicago. He has no idea where Shiro is, and God willing, Maurice believes that his _sweet boy_ has gotten himself killed.

“I think…” Shiro pries his hand off his calf. Ruffles his hair. His other hand stays clinging to his jeans. These different textures help, giving him something _real_ , and he sighs. “I answered your question, right? So, you’re gonna tell me how you got all the lyrics right?”

“You were four years old when Hole released _Live Through This_ , Shiro,” Ulaz says, nearly sounding bored. “However, I was twenty-four, and would turn twenty-five that following September. I was finishing my second year of medical school at the University of Michigan and preparing for a summer internship that I hoped would help me with my eventual training as a psychiatric resident.”

“And you, what?” A thought occurs and Shiro snorts at it. “You listened to Hole while getting ready for finals?”

“Essentially, yes. Does that surprise you?”

“Uh, yeah, a little? I mean, no offense, but… You strike me as more of a classical music, opera, Rufus Wainwright kind of guy? Or maybe David Bowie.”

Tilting his head curiously, Ulaz smiles. “I fear that you have confused me with my husband. Thace prefers such music more than I.”

Although an ache throbs down in Shiro’s legs, he keeps them curled up to his chest. He nods by way of acknowledging Ulaz’s point, but then he needs something else to say for himself—right? Probably, yes. Somehow, Shiro needs to keep the conversation moving.

However, words escape him. No doubt, they squirrel away like this _because_ he needs them, because why wouldn’t they pull a stunt like that. He glances at the golden ring on Ulaz’s long-fingered left hand. He pauses, blinks at a framed photograph on the bookshelf. Propped up in front of Ulaz’s DSM-V, the picture shows him in a white tuxedo, kissing a shorter, stocky, dark-haired man with a blocky jaw and his own white tux. Shiro’s eyes wander back to Ulaz’s clipboard next, though he doesn’t try to read the notes, this time.

God, Shiro needs to say _something_. Needs to end this silence. If he doesn’t, Ulaz will decide that he can’t be fixed or—

“Your husband teaches at the university, right?” Shiro’s mouth spits out the question before he can make himself hold back. “I mean, I thought you said that? But then, Matt and his parents don’t know Thace, I guess?”

“That does not surprise me, as Thace belongs to the departments of history and philosophy. However…” Arching both of his thick, pale eyebrows, Ulaz throws Shiro a _Pointed Look_ over the top-rims of his glasses. “Keeping us closer to the true topic at hand—”

“So, talking about what matters to me, then? Like, how we said—”

“That only constitutes one aspect of what we do here, Shiro.”

“But I’d really like to talk about Thace. Or just get to know you—”

“I would prefer to discuss _you_ , rather than my husband.” Silence makes Ulaz purse his lips. “There are reasons why I would prefer not to discuss Thace, at the moment. What do you think they are?”

“I don’t know, probably the part where I’m a complete _mess_? Because I’ve always been a mess, but I guess this is some kind of _problem_ , now? Which is like…” Shaking his head, Shiro wishes that he had longer hair. He’d look so much more dramatic if he had long hair. As opposed to looking like a decrepit plague rat. “Like, fine, I admit that I have a problem like they made us do in rehab? You can’t fix anything if you don’t admit it’s there. I get it, I do. But I’m still feeling like this whole thing is just…”

With a soft groan, Shiro thumps his head back into the sofa. “I don’t know, okay,” he says. “But I’ve tried to _fix_ the fact that I’m a mess. Except I’ve only made myself worse and hurt my brother and everyone else. And I got myself into something bad, and I abandoned Keith, and I hurt him even before I ran out on him, and he didn’t deserve it because all he ever did was treat me like a friend. Because I’m an _idiot_ , right?”

“I doubt that most of the people who know you would agree with that.”

“But they should.”

“I don’t think that you’re an idiot, Shiro.”

“But _you_ should. I know it’s part of your job—or your _calling_ , I guess—to listen to my garbage problems, and act supportive, and tell me that I’m _not_ a total idiot—”

“That considerably oversimplifies several aspects of what I do—”

“But regardless of what anybody thinks or what they do, and no matter that I’m physically not in Chicago anymore, I still checked all the windows last night because I needed to know they were still locked. More than once. Even though Maurice probably thinks I’m dead, or at least I hope he does, which is terrible for me to want when it means he’ll move on to the next barely-legal, useless pretty boy—but at least he’ll leave me out of his life, I guess?”

A deep inhale, then another, because his lungs insist upon them, if he expects to keep going like he is. As soon as his mouth can go on, though, Shiro adds, “I froze up on the walk over, too. The car wasn’t a sedan, wasn’t a Lexus, wasn’t even the right color—I mean, I got close enough and it was purple. Not burgundy; _purple_. But I saw its nose as I came around the corner, and I hid in an alley by a dumpster because I thought, ‘Oh God, he found me’ and I’d probably still be there, if Matt hadn’t texted me at the exact right second.”

Dimly, Shiro hears Ulaz’s pen and his rapid-fire scribbling. Vaguely, he wants to try and peek at the treatment notes again, because shouldn’t it be his right, to know exactly how much of a headcase Ulaz thinks he is?

The real world might not work that way, though. Finding out sounds like effort. Even more than putting a cork in whatever’s decided to burst forth from inside of him like this—so, Shiro smooths his fingers down the wrinkles in his jeans and tries to steady himself. As much as he ever gets steady.

“I don’t even know what I think I’m doing with what Matt texted me,” Shiro mutters, blinking at the ceiling as if he’ll find anything of interest, much less anything that could help. “His friend likes my music. I guess his friend thinks he wants to meet me. But why? How could he? I thought it’d—I thought I’d like—When I agreed, it felt like, ‘Oh cool, it’s better than letting myself get restless, and that Mitch guy from the new AA group seems to like me—or he does for now, which definitely won’t last, I mean, why would it—but what if Matt’s friend just…’”

As Shiro tries to catch his breath again, something throbs in the back of his mind, dull and angry like the worst of all possible headaches, yelling at him to shut up and stop tattling because nobody likes a tattletale, nor should they when Shiro is the screw-up in question. Worse, nobody likes dealing with a walking raincloud, a chronic downer who apparently can’t handle existing as a human person, and only makes it through anything by dragging other people to his level, and gets himself messed up over things that wouldn’t faze anybody else, so honestly, why does Shiro feel entitled to whine about these things to Ulaz.

He recognizes this feeling. For six weeks straight, he grappled with it every day.

Biggest difference between then and now: he could mostly get away with throwing up in rehab. Not that he always did it by choice, and it obviously didn’t fix anything or else Shiro wouldn’t need to sit here, clearly wasting Ulaz’s time and energy, even if he’s getting paid for this—but God, maybe if Shiro could beg off for just a little bit? He won’t have time, once their session’s over, but he could go down the hallway to the men’s room now, and give himself _one. last. purge_ —for real, this time—then come back, and do so much better at this therapy business, and have that be it. He really _would_ stop, after letting himself have that. Really, who would purging hurt, aside from Shiro himself—

“Shiro?” Ulaz prods, his voice soft and his tone gentle.

“I—um…”

Shiro balls a hand up in his jeans. Grinds the denim against his skin. When did he go silent? He was talking so much, words rushing out of him without apparent end. Now, he’s got a tundra pent up inside his chest, so silent that corpses would seem loud by comparison.

He shrugs at Ulaz, for want of anything else to do with himself.

“May I share a reaction to what you’ve said?” Ulaz waits for Shiro’s limp, noncommittal affirmative, then says, “It seems that you are talking around a larger, underlying point. Does that sound accurate?” Again, he waits for Shiro’s nod. “You seem, to me, torn between extremes of desperate hope and crushing despair—”

“That’s great—I mean, your wording, like? Can I turn that into some stupid trash lyrics?”

“You may do with it as you please. What perplexes me about so many of your statements, both those you’ve made today and those from previous sessions…” Somehow, the notes of sympathy in Ulaz’s sigh don’t sound fake. He’d probably fix Shiro with a painfully earnest expression, if Shiro could make himself look Ulaz in the eye. “You want things to improve, yet seem deeply convinced that there is no point in your recovery. You seem to view your own wellness as, at best, ancillary, and at worst, detrimental to others’ happiness.”

Shiro huffs. “Well, it seems to me that you aren’t _that_ perplexed by anything, so…”

“A fair assessment. I wished to give you more room to disagree with my interpretation, if you feel so inclined.”

“I guess…” Shutting his eyes doesn’t clear Shiro’s head as much as he’d like. But it does the job enough for him to say, “You were right. Before, I mean. About the sentiment of my shirt and everything? I just… don’t see anything hopeful about it, really.”

“Hmm. Why is that?”

“It’s more like I’m resigned to living though this, y’know? Assuming there even _is_ a through, and that’s one of the biggest _‘if’s_ I’ve ever heard.” He kneads his fingertips into the seam on his calf, not digging at his leg but rubbing the bumps that keep his jeans together. “That whole Sylvia Plath, ‘Lady Lazarus’ feel? One particular stanza of that poem? I took it for granted, all… ‘Dying / Is an art, like everything else. / I do it exceptionally well’—like? Of course I thought I’d be good at dying, I’ve only been called gifted for my entire stupid life—but then I wasn’t good at it, after all. _Abysmal_ , really.”

“You’re referring to your suicide attempt from this past July?”

“That, and all the borderline ODs that should’ve killed me. All the times Maurice had his hands around my neck and told me how much I wanted it—or how I trusted him so much, he could’ve killed me without breaking a sweat—or how he could’ve put me in the ER and I still would’ve wanted him, still would’ve _loved_ him, and I mean, he was right about that, about all of it.… And there were so many chances or near-misses, but?” Shiro swallows thickly. Keeps rubbing at his denim like it actually might help. “So many times it almost ended for me, and yet, I’m still alive. Which, statistically speaking, is pretty much a miracle.”

“Do you wish that you had not been given such a miracle?”

“I don’t know. That answer changes all the time. Sometimes, I can’t keep up with it.” He pauses, nearly choking on what he needs to say—but a few deep breaths help him mutter, “Right now, I just feel like.… Dying really hasn’t worked out so well? But neither has being alive. And the alleged benefits of trying again—or just hurting myself—don’t outweigh the definite downsides, or how many people I’d hurt and disappoint, but it’s also like…”

Since his jeans aren’t cutting it—aren’t keeping him grounded enough to get through admitting all of this—Shiro tugs both hands through his hair, grinds his palms against his forehead. “It’s not so much that I think there’s no point in recovery. Obviously, there _is_ a point.… You get better, you have a life, you don’t worry all the time about things that don’t matter—things like staring too long at a brownie, not even eating it but looking at it for too long—and you don’t think about how much easier everything would go for everyone if you threw up, or got wasted, or just went away so nobody had to put up with you. Recovery means you don’t think that _all the time_ , which sounds… _amazing_ , right?”

The next breath jolts into Shiro. Hits him like he’s stuck a wet fork in a power outlet. For once, though, he’s close to an endpoint that he’s allowed to want—he _knows_ how close he is to getting there—all he needs to finish saying is, “I don’t… I mean, I can’t… Everyone who cares about me says that I deserve so much better, and I deserve to be well _again_ , but it’s news to me that I was _ever_ well, y’know? When I try to picture a life _without_ anything like I just said, those good things and whatever else? I can’t see it ever happening for me.”

Another gulp. His throat tries to close up in protest. Tries to keep Shiro from finishing this confession. But he persists, dragging his hands down his face and telling Ulaz, “It’s like a void. Like a black hole and a white hole, both at once. Except the white hole burns, and the black hole never hits the point where Stephen Hawking says it should evaporate and die, and I used to have ways of dealing with them but all of them kept almost killing me. So, if I have to suck it up and live, that’s fine, but now, I can’t even tune things out, I can’t fix myself or help at all, and it _hurts_ , okay?”

Ulaz hums, taps his pen on something, probably his notepad. “What would you say hurts the most?”

“Everything. None of the pains gets better or worse. There’s too many of them. All they do is throb, and twist, and ache, and burn, and _hurt_ , until they hit the cacophony point, and swell to the universe’s worst crescendo, and then they die and turn into white noise.” Shiro shudders, almost chokes on his next breath. “And then they don’t feel like anything. Just this horrible, empty dullness that I only wish would hurt.”

“How long would you say you’ve felt like this?”

Shiro’s shoulders don’t budge when he tries to quirk them, so he gives Ulaz a throaty sound, like the vocal equivalent of a shrug. “I only remember it getting worse, not a time when it wasn’t with me. Like, there used to be islands I could cling to where I wouldn’t feel like that? But then the tide swept me up again. The islands got swallowed up like Atlantis.” Limply tugging on his hair again, Shiro adds, “And if I’d gotten any sustainable good out of alcohol, pills, starving myself, and risky sex, I wouldn’t be in your office, so…”

This, Shiro knows, is the point where Ulaz will say something poignant and smart that puts a pretty bow on things as if that sands down the edges and softens the fact that Shiro is an utterly hopeless headcase. This is the part where Ulaz puts on an enigmatic smile and say something that makes Shiro feel like things might ever be okay. Then, as soon as Shiro leaves, reality will come crashing down around his head again, reminding him that, actually, everything is broken and he can’t be fixed.

Except that doesn’t happen. No ribbons, today, or any empty promises about allegedly inevitable improvements. Instead, Ulaz’s pen jots something down. Then, a hand rests on Shiro’s knee.

When he opens his eyes, Shiro finds Ulaz standing over him. He smiles tiredly, with a clear air that wishes he had an easy answer to give Shiro. But it doesn’t seem like Ulaz means to shunt him off onto another therapist? Or at least, he doesn’t have the apprehension that Shiro would expect, if he were going to hear that he should try seeing someone else.

“Thank you, Shiro, for admitting that. Every word of it. This was a significant, important step, and I am proud of you for making it.”

“But I… Why would you even say—I just…” Shiro’s nose twitches and he can’t help gaping. “ _Huh_?”

“Since our first session, I have had several suspicions about some of your underlying problems and about potential avenues for addressing them. Some, however, were closed off to us unless I witnessed certain things firsthand, or heard you report them.” Ulaz squeezes Shiro’s knee and something like hope makes his heart skip a beat. “Because of what you’ve shared today—no simple feat for anyone—we now have more options available to us. More chances to find a new approach.”

“…Okay, so? Options like what?”

“Antidepressants, provided you are amenable to trying them.” In somber silence, Ulaz hands over a little blue sheet of paper. “They will not work immediately, if you wish to try them. We may need some trial and error to find the right medications for you. If you prefer not to, then we can continue looking for non-medicinal treatment options. Any answer that you give today is not binding and can change, if you should ever wish to withdraw your consent.”

Shiro blinks and sighs at the prescription. “So, I’ve basically got nothing to lose from trying?”

“Nothing whatsoever, and a great many things to find.” Another pat to Shiro’s knee, and Ulaz’s smile seems infinitely warmer, even though he hasn’t changed it much at all. “For instance, more energy to put into your recovery process, and perhaps, the ability to see why I believe in you.”

Shiro has no idea if he believes that. But it’s easy enough to nod and force a smile.

  


* * *

  


Taking the elevator down from Ulaz’s office, Shiro helps himself to several deep breaths and puts his earbuds in. Fiddling with his mp3 player, he tries to keep his hands from trembling. Doesn’t have much success, but Shiro makes the effort anyway.

As he and Ulaz just discussed while wrapping up the session, there’s nothing for Shiro to worry about. He doesn’t need to be on the alert. Maurice isn’t here; he’s back in Chicago. Shiro can listen to “Bohemian Rhapsody” while walking to Matt’s coffee-shop of choice, because he doesn’t need to be on the alert, perking his ears up at any odd sound down the alleyways in town. Humming along as Freddie Mercury belts Queen’s signature song— _“Too late, my time has come. Sends shivers down my spine, body’s aching all the time”_ —Shiro shuffles across the building’s marble floor—

And stops dead at the floor-to-ceiling by the exit.

Outside, everything’s gone dark gray. Flouting the forecast and what Shiro planned for, sheets of rain crash against the glass and the sidewalk, so loudly that he hears them over his music. _Wonderful_ —and of course, unexpected rain would come when he’s already having enough trouble staying warm. He doesn’t need any “help” like he might get from rain soaking him to the bones. Testing his immune system’s resistance—or, far more likely, his current lack thereof—sounds like a terrible idea.

But Shiro can’t waste any time. Thanks to him dragging the session out, he’ll already turn up for coffee some degree of late.

Throwing up his hood and tightening his scarf, Shiro skulks outside. He keeps his head down as he trudges through the sidewalks. Hands buried in his sweatshirt’s pockets, Shiro keeps flicking his fingers against the prescription Ulaz gave him. The paper’s relatively firm, heavier than Shiro would’ve expected. If he felt like doing so—if he felt like risking Ryou’s disapproval and making him worry—Shiro could so easily give himself the deepest papercut, something.

Even so, what Ulaz scribbled on the pad feels more cumbersome than anything else. Dwelling on them makes Shiro’s heart flop helplessly, makes his head spin.

Sertraline, the SSRI antidepressant better known as Zoloft—not the specific one that Dr. Hall ever talked about possibly giving Shiro, back in Chicago. Regardless of these differing professional opinions, it’s not entirely surprising that Ulaz handed over this idea of getting Shiro medicated. Several things led Shiro to give Dr. Hall a rough time as a patient, to withhold details or weave intricate lies about how he felt and what he did with whom. Maybe, if he’d ever shown her even a fraction of the honesty that he gave Ulaz today, Shiro would’ve found himself on Prozac or Paxil or something else, long before Maurice sequestered him uptown.

As he waits for the light to change at his first crosswalk, Queen shuffles onto Nirvana’s “Come As You Are.” When Shiro stops at the second crosswalk, the music’s about halfway through “Mr. Brightside.” That song wraps up during the long block he slogs down, and Emilie Autumn’s “Swallow” nearly finishes before Shiro gets held up for the third time, stumbling to a halt at the corner of Cherrygrove and Penniman when the signal abruptly shifts to, _“STOP.”_

With a deep sigh, he checks the clock on his phone; there’s only two minutes left until he’s supposed to meet everyone at The Daily Grind. If Shiro felt up to running there, he’d cut it close but wouldn’t keep them waiting too much longer. As it stands, though, his mp3 player shuffles onto a somber instrumental track—“What Is Dead May Never Die,” Ramin Djawadi’s leitmotif for Theon, Asha, and House Greyjoy—and the mere idea of sprinting to the coffee-shop makes Shiro’s bones ache. Given his usual luck, he’d surely find a way to trip over himself, break multiple limbs and probably his nose, and end up in the emergency room.

The good outcome, like as not, is that Shiro would exhaust himself and make a terrible first impression on Matt’s other friends. Best option, Shiro needs to suck it up and walk at a normal speed instead of racing anywhere.

After another five crosswalks and, finally, Shiro’s close to the coffee-shop. Passing by Yvonne’s—the diner where he, Matt, and Ryou went for lunch because their menu has enough on it that Shiro can actually stomach—he almost gets a spring in his step. Soon, and he’ll be with everybody else. Soon, and he’ll get out of the rain, get some coffee, and make Ulaz proud by going through with this meeting instead of backing out.

Paused at the corner of Labine Street and Davies, Shiro looks to the west. Even through the heavy rain and the darkening sky, he sees The Daily Grind’s sign, a bright blue circle with a lit-up picture of a cup of coffee. He smiles, reminded of a stained glass window and drumming one thumb against his phone, breathing more easily than he has in quite some time. Maybe he still hasn’t texted Laura and Cameron yet. Maybe, as Ulaz suggested, he needs to ask Ryou to hold him accountable so that he actually goes through with it. Maybe a lot of things have gone wrong and may do so again—but there’s only one crosswalk left before he gets to his coffee and meets this Lance guy who supposedly loves his music.

Then, Shiro glances to his right, up northbound Labine. Out of the many signs protruding from the buildings up that block, one in particular stands out, illuminated in bright reddish orange, practically a flaming beacon through the gray, calling out to Shiro with just three letters: _CVS_.

Just the sight of them makes Shiro cringe. Down in his pocket, the prescription seems to weigh five hundred pounds. He’s already running later than expected; he doesn’t have time for any stops. CVS pharmacies, in his experience, stay open later than others he could visit—but going there after coffee would mean that he and Ryou took a detour instead of simply heading home. No, Ryou wouldn’t see it as an inconvenience, but Shiro’s throat coats up with guilt from the mere thought of dragging Ryou into an extra stop when he’ll no doubt have readings to do for class, work to look over for his Dr. Iverson, and/or any number of things to prepare for proposing his dissertation.

Besides, there’s no telling how Shiro will or won’t feel, when the meeting’s over. He could need all the strength he has to slump back to Ryou’s apartment. If he waits to fill his prescription, it could end up like Ryou’s reason for not wanting to give Shiro extra time on searching for a dietitian: he might not ever get around to doing this. Antidepressants may not be a surefire thing—but going without them hasn’t worked out either.

Looking back toward the coffee-shop, Shiro takes a deep breath. No, he doesn’t like the sound of needing to explain himself or apologize for being late. It’s neither fair nor good of him, making Matt and his friends and Ryou wait when they were probably on time. He doesn’t know if he’ll end up exhausted after this meeting; he might not.

Yet, as a new song starts in his headphones—a classic, tinkling piano line, if transposed down ever-so-slightly, then ending on a deeper note—Shiro turns northward. Lately, he’s been skipping all the tracks he keeps around from previous seasons of _Glee_. This particular medley, though, feels so apt, it’s almost eerie. Spirited, uptempo, inviting anyone who hears Amber Riley’s and Naya Rivera’s shared lead vocals to get up and dance, preferably a tango. Only an accident of his mp3 player’s shuffle function, but it _feels_ like a sign.

Shiro darts up Labine just in time; the signal starts to blink a warning while he’s still in the crosswalk. Hearing the Troubletones’ “Survivor/I Will Survive” kicks something inside of him into high gear. Better to get this task done now, before he can give himself room to weasel out of doing it. All the way to the CVS and then to the pharmacy at the back of the store, Shiro moves like the hounds of Hell are closing in behind him.

Once he’s handed over the prescription, Shiro ducks into the first aisle his feet find. Wet boots squelching on the floor, he slumps through the assorted body washes and haircare products, and fumbles for his phone. He should let Matt and Ryou know what’s going on, tell them that he’s on his way and they don’t need to worry.

In the upper lefthand corner of his screen, the words, _“No Service”_ glare at Shiro.

Heart firmly lodged behind his Adam’s apple, Shiro clicks over to the wifi settings… and finds absolutely no unlocked networks. Most of those available probably won’t give Shiro an easy time if he tries guessing his way into them, either. Their names most likely reflect whichever businesses around here set them up, and for any number of potential reasons, they might keep the passwords close to the chest. Just like Maurice and Haxus sometimes did with the wifi at the townhouse, changing the access information whenever one or both of them took issue with any aspect of Shiro’s conduct.

One network, however, looks quite promising. Whoever set it up named it, “Dragonstone.”

Sighing in relief, Shiro can’t help smiling. Not the strongest smile that he could manage, no, but he has ample reason to grin. He’s been reading _A Song of Ice and Fire_ since he was ten-and-a-half years old. Getting access should prove easy.

When his phone prompts him for the password, he tries the most obvious first choice: _“Fire and Blood.”_ After all, the Targaryens occupied the castle at Dragonstone for centuries, in the history of Ice and Fire. Their House’s words would make perfect sense.

Except that doesn’t work. Neither does typing in lowercase letters, nor typing everything as a single word. Dimly, he wonders if the password might not be the name of some Prince or Princess of Dragonstone—and then he cringes, remembering how many Targaryens have ever held those titles.

A quick check up and down the aisle, then Shiro lets himself blow a raspberry at his phone. Immature, yes, but it does make him feel slightly less aggravated.

Next, he tries, _“Ours is the Fury”_ —which would also make perfect sense, as a password. By the time the series starts, House Targaryen has been deposed, Dany and Viserys live in exile as guests of Illyrio Mopatis, and Stannis Baratheon sits as the Lord of Dragonstone. Why not use his House’s motto?

Shiro grumbles when that guess doesn’t go through, either. Likewise, he doesn’t get in with any of the four combinations of capitalization or word-smushing that he tries. He gets the exact same amount of nowhere with, _“Lord of Light,”_ _“Azor Ahai,” “Lightbringer,”_ or, _“The Prince that was promised.”_ Nothing comes from trying Stannis’s name, nor from _“Lord Stannis,” “King Stannis,”_ _“Stannis Baratheon first of his name,” “Robert’s rightful heir,”_ or, _“The King in the Narrow Sea.”_

Alright, fine—maybe whoever set up this network might not have gone for something so obvious. The Baratheon words, or Stannis’s name and titles, could theoretically let in anybody who recognizes where the name _“Dragonstone”_ comes from. Unfortunately, Shiro makes a similar lack of progress by trying Princess Shireen’s name, Lady Selyse’s (neither her married nor her maiden name works), Ser Davos Seaworth’s (“The Onion Knight” also leads to nothing), Maester Cressen’s, and Melisandre’s (it doesn’t surprise Shiro when guessing “The Red Woman” turns up an error message, but he groans about it anyway). He even tries with _“Patchface”_ and _“Patches,”_ but still, the Dragonstone network will not let him in.

Forcing himself to keep breathing deeply, Shiro bites down on the urge to scream. True, he could so easily give up—but Ryou and Matt will worry, if he doesn’t let them know why he hasn’t joined them, yet. Which Shiro can’t blame them for, considering the places that he’s been lately, but all he needs to do is send them a text, or an email, or something, _any_ kind of missive, just to let his brother and their friend know that he’s safe, he’s on his way, and he won’t be long. Going out on a limb, Shiro keys in, _“Stannis is the mannis.”_

When that works, Shiro almost lobs his phone over the shelf before him and into a wall of miscellaneous cosmetics. About the only reason he restrains himself, is that the people who work here already have enough to deal with. It wouldn’t be fair, making them clean up the messy side-effects of a temper tantrum, no matter how justifiable Shiro’s indignation feels.

No sense wasting time, though. With his access secured, Shiro starts tapping out an email. Ryou gets alerts for those as soon as they show up in his inbox. He’ll see an email sooner, and Shiro won’t need to fret about whether or not iMessage ate the text he tried to send. If all goes well, Ryou will get Shiro’s note, rest easily, and be well relieved that his Kashi actually bothered checking in with him for once. 

He doesn’t get halfway through the first sentence before somebody taps him on the shoulder. Choking down a sigh, Shiro turns to face a short, slightly-built, milky-skinned pharmacist with freckles and an explosion of ginger curls tied back in a high ponytail.

“Mr. Shirogane?” When he nods, she gives him an apologetic smile. “We’re having a little bit of trouble with your health insurance? Would you mind, it’ll only take a couple minutes, just? If you could help us try to sort this out?”

Heaving a deep breath, Shiro pockets his phone. “I only moved here from Illinois a couple weeks ago,” he says, following where she leads. “I mean, I’ve had some help trying to get everything fixed up with my HMO—it’s all Blue Cross, Blue Shield—but… Could that move be what’s causing the problem?”

While she taps on the computer, Shiro braces himself, splaying both palms on the countertop. God, he hopes this doesn’t take too long to fix.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This isn’t really a major enough note to be with the, like, actual warnings up above? But yes, Shiro and Ryou’s grandmother was the sort of person who gave _A Song of Ice and Fire_ to her exceptionally bright, intellectually and creatively gifted, sensitive ten-year-old grandson because he didn’t feel challenged enough at school, wanted something else to read, and didn’t enjoy Tolkien in the same way that Ryou and their father did.
> 
> Considering she also let him watch Nakata Hideo’s _Ringu_ the year before that, gave him Mishima Yukio's _Confessions of a Mask_ and James Baldwin’s _Giovanni’s Room_ when he was barely twelve, and only made him wait until he was thirteen to watch _Hellraiser_ , _Onibaba_ , and _Evil Dead 2_ , even knowing that the latter two movies movies contain certain uncomfortable scenes involving trees…… Yeah, hooking Shiro up with stuff that most people probably would’ve considered age-inappropriate? Was kind of A Thing that Obaasan did, and A Thing that she debated with her son on a fairly regular basis.
> 
> Shiro doesn’t see what the big deal about any of this is, but his take on the matter is not objective and it’s honestly never going to be because Obaasan was always unflappably biased in his favor, and after her death, he remains quite deeply biased toward her, for several reasons.
> 
> Anyway, this _was_ supposed to be all one chapter with the next bit, wherein Shiro and Lance actually, finally meet each other—but unfortunately, it started running long, as things I write so often do, and then I was like, “Okay, this needs a break.”


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Additional CW’s for this chapter:** discussion of familial dysfunction (Ryou telling a family story about his and Shiro’s late grandfather drunkenly making fourteen-year-old Shiro drive him to the ER, which neither of the twins really understand is not a typical “funny story about weird grandparents”); Ryou’s fraternal overprotectiveness getting really over-the-top and triggering Shiro into flashbacks; **Sendak’s gaslighting of Shiro** (largely in the flashback, with Shiro being taken to the point where he feels he can’t trust his own mind, memories, or perceptions); and a particular kind of emotional manipulation and abuse in which Sendak baits Shiro into confessing things, then punishing him for it.

One thing Lance can’t fault Matt for: trying to take the edge off some of the tension in their booth. Whatever’s going on with Shiro—maybe? allegedly? Lance hopes?—their booth still only has the four of them, a fact that glares at Lance as the early evening rush piles into The Daily Grind. None of them looks tall or beautiful enough to be Shiro, and none of them comes over to the table, like Matt swears that Shiro will.

When Lance joins the line before the counter, he wonders if something’s gone wrong or if Shiro’s gotten in some kind of trouble. Ryou sort of ruins any notion that Matt’s lied about knowing Shiro—as strange as the situation remains, Ryou’s stories have so far remained consistent and he hasn’t tripped over any words—but he hasn’t threatened anyone since Matt called him out. True, this could simply mean that Ryou doesn’t feel like it, and maybe he’s learned his lesson about that.

But it could also mean that Ryou’s worrying too much about what has or hasn’t maybe happened to his brother. Maybe he can’t get his head around being a jerk to anyone because the fear is getting to him too much. From the sound of things—what precious few things he and Matt have let slip, anyway, which have let Lance’s imagination run wild without much to really go on—Ryou might not be in the wrong for fretting, either.

Asking how long they’ve waited, Lance fears, would only make things worse.

When he skulks back to the table, carrying a new round of lattes for himself and Hunk, and more treats for the table generally, Lance expects that things might get a little bit easier. He comes bearing gifts, but unlike certain untrustworthy, mythological Greeks, Lance only wants to make peace around the table and maintain it before his musical hero gets here. Hence, sharing amongst everyone a mix of cookies (including the last two oatmeal raisin ones), muffins, a pair of cinnamon rolls, and a brownie that might be the size of Ryou’s hand (though Lance just missed getting one of those with frosting).

Food brings people together; that’s what Hunk always says. The Daily Grind’s baked goods might not rival anything that Hunk makes—there’s a reason people are already putting orders in, to get some of his cupcakes during finals—but Lance’s offerings should make everything better. Instead, he drops back into the thick of… Well, it sure is _something_.

“I wish _my_ Grandma took her wig off when she’s _drunk_.” Matt puckers his lips and rifles through Lance’s offerings of little paper bags, before deciding not to take anything for now. “…I wish my Grandma even wore a wig she _could_ take off. But I don’t think she does. Or Nana Connie, either. But maybe they’re just magic and I can’t tell.”

Ryou shrugs. “Unless they’re very handy with cosmetics, you’d be able to tell if they were wearing a wig.”

Hunk gulps down a sip of his toffee latte. Pouting bemusedly, he prods, “What does makeup have to do with anything?”

“It’d depend on what kind of wig Matt’s grandmothers hypothetically have—”

“Nana Connie _did_ used to tell me that she sold her real hair to a demon—”

“If they had cheap wigs, the sort like—Kashi calls them ‘Party City wigs’ for some reason? Like, the cheap kind that you buy out of a bag for Halloween—”

“But Nana Connie always changed her story when me and Katie pushed her on it.… And she changed her mind all the time about what she actually _got_ for selling her hair to Azazel—”

“So, Party City wigs, Matt’s grandmothers probably wouldn’t be able to hide very well—”

“She also couldn’t decide if his name was actually Azazel, or if he was really Samael, or Mephistopheles, or Cairn the Destroyer, or _Bob_ —”

“But,” Ryou says, breaking off a piece of his chocolate-blueberry muffin, “if Matt’s grandmothers hypothetically got some expensive wigs? They’d have—they’re called lace-front wigs? They have the little…” With a huff, he gestures at his forehead. “They have some weird stuff? And you try to—Kashi calls it ‘blending’? Using makeup to hide the lace, I guess, and make it look like your natural hairline?”

“Yeah, sure,” Lance huffs. “Did _Kashi_ learn all of that stuff from _Rupaul’s Drag Race_.”

“From one of the only real friends he had in high school, actually.” That statement makes Lance flinch—but all Ryou does is sigh and look toward the shop’s front door. “He _did_ learn the ‘Party City’ thing from _Drag Race_ , though. So, you’re half-right, I guess.”

Although Lance starts spitting out a response that would be incredibly witty if he finished it, he quickly trails off. Words drying up on him, he slips into the sort of silence that he hates because it makes him sound like a flipping _idiot_.

…Well, not _sound_ —Lance guesses that silence can’t exactly make him _sound_ like anything or anybody or whatever in particular—but he can’t make himself stop gaping at Ryou. Maybe he’d look less stupid if he could hide in a sip of latte, like Hunk keeps doing. Or maybe Lance could stuff his face with lemon poppyseed muffin. But his arms don’t want to move for him. He slumps against the booth’s cushion, unable to sit up straight when everything feels so nauseatingly. skin-crawlingly, mind-twistingly goddamn _weird_.

Before Lance can make himself say anything, Ryou fumbles around in one of his coat’s pockets. Wallet in-hand, he sulks off to join the line again himself. Without him there, Lance, Hunk, and Matt could say something to each other, but the booth goes mostly quiet. Hunk has some forwarded emails from his own grandmother, which Lance would judge him for reading, except that she only sends him the ones about cute and/or exceptionally courageous animals. Matt keeps checking his phone, tapping out god only knows what, and grumbling about miscellaneous somethings that he decides not to explain to anybody.

For want of anything else to do with himself, Lance decides to play a game. With none on his phone that won’t rack up huge bills from in-app purchases, Lance whips out his DS and fires up his latest _Pokémon HeartGold_ save file. He took Red down in battle yesterday, which means he’s that much closer to bagging the Kyogre that he wants so badly.

He’s trekking toward the game’s Embedded Tower when Ryou huffs back into his seat.

“Still no Kashi?”

Matt shakes his head. “My reception’s fine, so my texts have been sending, but…?”

“Jesus Christ.” In a flash, Ryou has his own phone out.

“Uh, not to be a Negative Nancy? Or to be _That_ Guy?” Fidgeting in his side of the booth, Hunk taps his forefingers together in that way he always does when he doesn’t want to say something but knows that someone needs to. If Lance’s long legs could reach from here—if he could manage without kicking either Matt or Shiro’s brother in the process—then he’d bat his foot against Hunk’s shin, a little bit of _totally platonic_ , emotionally reassuring footsie. “Is calling Shiro really gonna make a difference? I mean, if you guys think that he’s off doing… whatever you think he’s up to?”

“Kashi and I have _rules_ about phone calls—”

“Okay, that’s great and all? But you and Matt are acting like he might be in trouble, or avoiding us, or—”

“When he was still living in Chicago, Kashi walked away from multiple guys he would’ve otherwise slept with. All because I called him. Because we have _rules_ about texts and phone calls, and he knows what they mean.”

“But if he doesn’t want to be found or—”

Ryou throws up a hand to silence Hunk. “It’s ringing,” he explains—but almost immediately, his face falls and he wrinkles up his nose. “One ring, then voicemail. That’s not like him, or at least—”

“Oh! That’s _not_ him, actually!” All at once, Lance has three sets of eyes staring at him. With a quirk of the shoulders, he allows himself to put on a hopeful grin. “Ringing once, then going to voicemail? That’s what happens when my sisters call me at the same time. Or when I call my mom but she doesn’t have service.”

For a moment, the silence out of Ryou feels like a death sentence. The way he narrows his eyes makes Lance shrink in the booth and fold his arms over his chest, as if he’ll dodge whatever ice-vision powers Ryou no doubt has by doing so. Yet, as Ryou pockets his phone, he only nods and supposes that Lance’s ideas make sense. Certainly, he hopes that Lance is right about this.

“Because you’re Kashi’s brother?” Lance tries, “And you’d rather have this whole thing be an honest mistake?”

“That’s the most accurate condensed version, sure.” Idly tapping his fingers on the table, Ryou checks the door again. “Also, can you please _not_ call him ‘Kashi,’ when he gets here?”

“What? Is that, like, some super-secret twin nickname that you shove in everybody’s faces?”

“No. It’s an intimate, personal nickname that he prefers people not use for him until _he_ feels comfortable with them doing so.” Grousing wordlessly, Ryou props himself up on his elbows. “Anyway, Kashi has a lot of feelings wrapped up in the name. It all has to do with our late Grandfather—”

“Yes! Good! Grandfather, there we go!”

Brow furrowed, Ryou frowns at Matt. He looks about as mixed up as Lance feels. “Beg your pardon?”

“Everybody else has shared weird stories about their grandparents—”

“I haven’t!”

“You were in the line, Lance—”

“But why can’t I tell a story about my abuela? Or my Meemaw?”

“Because I’m trying to get somebody else more included in things, too.” As though there’s any doubt about what Matt could mean, he points at Ryou. “Your brother always makes your grandparents sound so fucking cool—”

“Ugh, he _would_ —”

“He makes your grandmother in particular sound like she was a _lot_ to handle—”

“That’s a diplomatic understatement—”

“While he seems to really respect your grandfather, so!” Bouncing slightly, Matt claps like an excited seal who’s trying to behave at a fancy schmancy tea party with Princess Kate and the Queen of Hearts. “Let’s hear some cool Shirogane grandparents stories already.”

Rather than running right into a witty response, Ryou tilts his head back and stares up at the ceiling as if he might pick answers out of it like finding them in tea leaves. After a few moments’ thought, he says, “Ojiisan used to watch _Gone with the Wind_ while tossing back glasses of Johnnie Walker? And then, after a while, he’d start babbling about how the movie subtextually supported the US forcing Japanese-Americans into internment camps during the—”

“Okay, wait, but _what_?” As the table collectively looks to Hunk, he shrugs apologetically. Fussing with his bright yellow sweatshirt’s sleeve, he explains, “ _Gone with the Wind_ came out in 1939, okay? Japanese-American internment camps didn’t come into use until after Pearl Harbor. And the original _novel_ came out way before that, so like…?”

Trailing off, Hunk shrinks in on himself, which Lance can’t blame him for, considering how Ryou acted earlier.

Except that Ryou only nods and says, “Yeah, Ojiisan said a lot of ridiculous things at different points? Kashi and I couldn’t call him out on some parts for a while—like, the anachronisms in his interpretation of _Gone with the Wind_? Which, in retrospect, were particularly glaring because he was a _historian_. Like, a respected one. He got invited to speak at conferences, he had book deals, history was his passion and what all his training, education, and studies focused on? But…”

Letting out a heavy sigh, he slumps even harder on his elbows. “At least we could _eventually_ disprove his read on that movie? Unlike all of his claims that he’d been friends with George Takei literally ever. Which we could never effectively argue with him about because he’d just start ranting about how we hadn’t been there and we couldn’t prove a negative.”

Around the table, everyone falls silent yet again. Hunk gives headlong into his toffee latte, as if it’s some magical potion to protect him from the consequences of his curiosity. Not that he gets anywhere with this—just like how Matt gets nowhere with trying to control his breathing—but Lance can’t hold that against either of them for trying at… whatever they think they might get out of how they’re acting. Across the table, Ryou ducks into his own long drink of coffee, not blushing but glancing toward the door as if embarrassed, dodging any scrutiny or judgment, rather than searching for his still absent, currently wayward brother.

“Okay, okay, okay.” Matt huffs, thumping both palms on the table. “That—that’s not what I expected? But also, like, not _bad_ , necessarily?”

“Ojiisan could leave a lot to be desired. You can say so—”

“But that was only the first thing that came to mind, I bet?” As soon as Ryou nods, Matt erupts in a broad, relieved grin. “So, let’s try for something else, then. Different story. Or anecdote. Memory. Whatever. You’ve gotta have more tales to tell, so! Let’s hear some.”

Despite what Matt might have wanted, his excited clapping does not snap Ryou directly into action. Instead, Ryou slouches, turning his eyes back to the ceiling. If there’s any truth in what Lance vaguely remembers reading in a listicle on Cracked.com, then Ryou’s _really_ putting effort into recollecting something, well and proper racking his damn brain for a story he can share about his grandparents. Or maybe the listicle was on the _Cosmo_ website. Or maybe _Psychology Today_. Maybe it was just a post on someone’s blog.

Either way, Lance remembers one point very clearly: looking up like Ryou’s doing now? Leads to people accessing their memories more easily, even if they don’t consciously intend to do that, for some weird-ass neuropsychological reason that Lance doesn’t understand, not that he’s really tried. Given how Ryou keeps quiet and lets his face shift through so many inscrutable expressions, he must have a lot of stories he needs to sort through. Or maybe he just badly needs to think.

Finally, he makes a throaty, grumbling sound as if he’s trying not to sigh again. “Thanksgiving 2004 was pretty interesting?”

“Yes! Yes, amazing!” The glassware rattles as Matt thwacks his fist against the table. But he beams so excitedly that Lance almost wants to tag along into whatever joy Matt’s feeling. “Holiday memories are perfect. So much great, weird, awesome stuff happens on the holidays. Good times all around. So, what happened in 2004?”

“Uh, well, it starts with Ojiisan hitting the Johnnie Walker again?” If Ryou hears the bemused, slightly distressed noise that Matt makes, then he doesn’t let it show. “He was a connoisseur of Johnnie Walker. He had a whole collection down in the basement, with special edition bottles and everything. Usually, he didn’t get into too many of the special whiskies, especially not the ones he wanted to pass on as heirlooms. But, y’know, it was a holiday, so he got into the Johnnie Walker Blue—”

“Isn’t that, like, legendarily expensive?” Hunk cringes preemptively, and winces when Ryou nods. “It’s super-alcoholic too, right?”

“Don’t remember. But Ojiisan probably wouldn’t have bothered with the stuff if it didn’t live up to its reputation.”

Vaguely, Lance wants to ask what sort of reputation Ryou means to indicate. All Lance knows about Johnnie Walker Blue is that it’s some allegedly fancy whisky, and it made an appearance in some old episode of _Supernatural_. Like, old enough that Lance was still at the tail-end of middle school, watching the show with Veronica and Marimar, hoping that Mom wouldn’t find out because she didn’t think that Lance was old enough for that kind of content yet.

A twinge in the pit of his chest tells him to keep quiet, though. His question isn’t _that_ important, and he’d rather not make Ryou take offense.

“Anyway,” Ryou mutters, tapping his fingertips on his forearm. “So, Ojiisan’s been hitting the Johnnie Walker Blue for a little while. Couple hours, maybe. Mom and Obaasan were sick, and they both go lie down eventually. There had been pretty bad storms, so the flight our aunts and cousins would’ve taken got canceled. Dad’s torn between checking on Mom and Obaasan pretty often, and working on some huge project that he had to do for—”

“So, wait, he just… left you and Shiro with your drunk grandfather?”

“In fairness, I don’t think Dad knew how drunk his father really was.”

“ _Dude_ , how could he _not_?”

“Because Ojiisan didn’t let on how much of that junk he’d been chugging, Matt.”

Matt balks in a hurricane of offended huffing. “Oh, like that’s just completely obvious?”

“How much Ojiisan had been drinking? Wasn’t obvious. He had a very dignified mein, and he was, like, stupidly gifted at acting sober.”

“But I mean, come on, that’s like—” Matt cuts himself off with a sharp inhale, splaying his hands flat on the table. After a longish moment, he’s steady enough to bite out, “Okay, I’m good. I’m fine. We’re good. You were saying about your grandfather getting shit-faced on Thanksgiving?”

“Yeah, well? He got in the mood for _Star Trek_ , more than _Gone with the Wind_ , that time—”

“That’s really cool, though,” Lance offers, trying to smile. “I mean, your grandpa digging sci-fi and stuff instead of thinking it’s young people stuff that sucks? That’s awesome.”

“Kinda less so when he couldn’t see Sulu on the screen without drunkenly making up stories about how he totally had all kinds of weird misadventures with George Takei when they were kids at Tule Lake. But on the other hand? We were used to that.”

With a soft huff, Ryou quirks his shoulders. “So, at the time, we only had DVDs of the first two seasons of TOS—which is still a lot of good _Star Trek_ , though. But Ojiisan’s increasingly tipsy, so no matter how stable he looks, he’s making us bounce around between episodes a lot because he can focus when the episodes are _playing_? But he can’t decide what mood he’s in, aside from wanting to watch _Star Trek_. Kashi doesn’t mind humoring him, though, because he would’ve let the old man get away with murder. It’s good that he’s patient with Ojiisan; I couldn’t keep up with him when, for instance, ‘Space Seed’—the one with Khan—ends and Ojiisan goes like, ‘Oh, put on “Journey to Babel,” now! I want to see that one.’”

While he ostensibly pauses for a breath, Ryou takes a long drink of his coffee, too. Down in his jacket pocket, Lance feels his phone buzz. He half-expects Veronica to be on his case, teasing like she literally can tell when her little brother talks about her behind her back—but the text Lance finds has Hunk’s name on it. A quick glance in his direction makes Hunk shoot Lance a mildly lopsided smile.

As if smelling his buddy’s confusion in the air, the way that animals can tell when a storm is brewing, Hunk’s texted, _[Journey to Babel is the one where we meet Spock’s parents, and then he almost lets his father die because his sense of duty tells him to.]_

Sometimes, Lance really has to wonder how anybody ever successfully got _Star Trek_ on the air.

“After we watch that one, Ojiisan feels like he wants to watch ‘The Naked Time,’ which is great. It even meant he didn’t go on about his and George Takei’s alleged excellent adventures, y’know…” Rolling his eyes, Ryou shakes his head like a horse trying to get rid of flies. “Mostly, he skipped over telling those stories? Because Mr. Sulu spends a lot of that episode running around shirtless, brandishing a fencing saber, and the lower-hanging fruit right then? Was going after Kashi.”

“Wait, _what_?!” Lance splutters. “Like, picking on Shiro for being gay?”

“Not _exactly_? Not in the homophobic way that phrasing sounds like, at least?”

“I mean, you’re the one who kinda made it sound like that,” Hunk points out gingerly, twisting an oldish napkin in his thick, gorgeous fingers. “You jump right from talking about a half-naked Sulu and his rock hard abs, to saying that your grandpa made fun of the grandson who just happens to be gay? All while the episode with shirtless fencing Sulu was playing? I’m just saying, like…”

“In fairness, he _did_ make fun of Kashi, but it wasn’t like…? When I say that Ojiisan went after Kashi? He went in more like…” Putting on a deeper voice, with a growl like how a werewolf ought to sound, Ryou says, “‘At least we know you’ve got good taste in half-naked man-body, Kashi. At least you aren’t getting so precious about the white men you could be ogling, Kashi. I don’t _care_ that Shatner, Nimoy, and Koenig are _Jewish_ , Kashi; they’re all pale enough to count as white, and no white man will ever deserve to be with _my_ grandson. Only a nice Japanese man like George Takei could _ever_ treat you the way you rightfully deserve.’”

“Was George Takei even _out_ yet, though? Publically, I mean?”

“He was not, Lance. Not for, like… I think another year or so? Happened before Ojiisan died and Kashi left for Chicago, I remember that much. Because Ojiisan made us eat all of our previous words about how he had to be making things up and he couldn’t have known George Takei because _obviously_ , he wasn’t gay.”

Letting slip a sigh, Ryou glances out the window—but that only makes him sulk like a kitten in the middle of some unwanted bath. “Anyway, after that episode, we start ‘The Trouble With Tribbles.’ So far, so chill. But about halfway through, Ojiisan finishes up his Johnnie Walker—”

“Like…” Matt gulps, and stumbles over a few half-baked syllables before he blurts out, “Like he decided he was done? And he didn’t want to drink anymore that night? Or d’you mean, like, because he finished the whole freaking bottle?”

“He’d been eating and drinking water periodically. And he had ridiculously high tolerance—”

“Yeah, I _bet_ ,” Hunk grumbles, sarcasm dripping out of every syllable.

“Still, Dad had told us to cut him off at some point, y’know, to not let him get _completely_ wasted. So, when Ojiisan says to go downstairs and get him another bottle, Kashi tells him, ‘No.’ Which just makes Ojiisan say he’ll go to the basement himself then, because our family is the best case that you’ll ever find for saying stubbornness might be genetic.”

As if he can’t tell how intently he’s being stared at, Ryou shrugs and makes a throaty sound like he has no idea what else anybody could’ve done in the situation he’s describing. “Next thing we know, there’s some weird sound down in the basement, like _thud, thud, thud_. Then, Ojiisan’s groaning because he’s fallen down the stairs.”

“ _Dude_ ,” Lance whispers, unsure what else he can say. Unsure if he even should say anything right now. What could anything he said even do to help?

The rest of the coffee-shop seems to disappear around them, fading out into a vague din, white noise where Lance knows, intellectually, other people carry on with their own lives. Do they have any stories like this? They might. Lance wouldn’t have expected this from Shiro or Ryou’s family, either, but here they are. Who’s to say what kinds of tales the other patrons could have in their own pasts? They could even have downright horrors, the sorts of skeletons in the family closets that make you terrified of other people ever finding out that Uncle Bill was a serial killer or Aunt Maggie liked to torture kittens.

Nobody can draw Lance’s eyes off of Ryou, though. Shifting toward the edge of the booth, Lance can only do so much to keep his eyes from bugging clean out of his skull. He barely breathes as he waits for Ryou to finish a long drink of coffee and keep going.

“So, of course, we run down to help him up, see if he’s okay. Relative to being old and falling down the stairs, I mean. Good thing we did, too, because when we get down there, Ojiisan’s unsteady—more than he should’ve been—and he’s feeling pain in weird places despite all the alcohol, so Kashi is all, ‘We need to get you to the ER.’ And I’m like, ‘Let me go get Dad.’”

Lance nods. “Totally responsible.”

“That’s what I thought, yeah. But Ojiisan… disagreed.” Letting that word hang there for a moment, Ryou’s face twists up in a way that reminds Lance of sour milk. “He thought that we didn’t need Dad’s involvement, and he pulled out some line about, like, ‘If you get Hikaru, then he’ll punish the two of you for not stopping me any sooner. You don’t deserve that, don’t give him the opportunity, Kashi! _You_ should drive me to the emergency room.’”

“I—but—wait—” Matt makes a whiny sound. “ _How_ old were you guys, exactly?”

“Fourteen, almost fifteen. Kashi had already done the classroom part of driver’s ed. I was working on it. But neither of us had a learner’s permit, so we hadn’t done any driver’s training yet—and I guess Ojiisan felt like, ‘What better way to learn how to manage any on-road stress than by driving _my_ drunk ass to the ER.’”

Ryou sighs into his palm, rubs at the bridge of his nose, and goes on, “ _And_ the storms were still going. Sheets of rain, you could barely see, the roads were a mess—but oh no, we can’t just go get _Dad_. Then, Ojiisan starts breaking out all his stuff about, ‘You’re my grandson, Kashi. My elder grandson. You have _my_ name, I love you, I’ve done so much for you personally, why would you ever for one second hesitate to do your duty to this family, don’t you love your grandfather’—”

“What the _fuck_ ,” Hunk hisses. Between him and Lance, Matt squawks in agreement. If Lance could find his own voice right now, he’d be right there with them.

“Ojiisan could get dramatic when he was drinking. Or sometimes, emotionally manipulative. Whisky tapped into some fear he had about the family being torn apart, or disappearing, and then he externalized it, but it’s okay, I mean? It’s not like he actually _meant_ what he was saying.”

Waiting for a response, Ryou shrugs as though this is a totally average and non-worrisome thing to say about your grandparents, as though he doesn’t understand why three people are gaping at him—or else doesn’t want to deal with that.

“Either way,” he says when nobody else has anything to say, “Kashi carries Ojiisan out to his car and takes him to the ER, while I try to run interference as necessary—like, ‘Yeah, Dad, Kashi and Ojiisan are in the basement, but you super can’t go in there right now’—and try to and keep Dad from finding out what’s going on, you know?”

“Which,” a new person says, “only leads to him finding out _exactly_ what’s going on, and storming off to the ER.”

The voice comes from slightly above the rest of them. Hearing it, Lance feels his breath catch in his throat. His head bows, and his gaze drops to the table. He’d swear he feels his heart stop. Then, thank fuck, it starts again, shuddering back to life, but—

“Holy _shit_ , Shiro!” Matt groans. “Tell me your brother’s making this whole Thanksgiving story up.”

“Uh, why would I do that?”

“Because what the _fuck_ is with that story? Seriously, man.”

“Most people have crazy stories about their grandparents. How is this any different from the story about your Great-Uncle Moretti beating Sean Connery at poker? Or the time when Nana Connie punched a cop? _Any_ of the times that she’s ever punched a cop?”

While Matt descends into a round of inarticulate spluttering, Lance finally makes himself look up.

As soon as he does, Lance almost runs away to hyperventilate in the men’s room like a normal person.

Dripping like a wet dog, the new guy towers over the table, his height further emphasized by how thin he is. Under the heavy black coat and unzipped black hoodie, Lance wonders if there’s anything at all. Black jeans barely stay up on hips that hide in the multiple layers of black t-shirts like assassins lurking in the shadows. Tracing his eyes up that skinny torso, Lance pauses on the top t-shirt’s design—what he can see of it through the messenger bag strap draped across the new guy’s chest. Rather than linger too long, Lance moves up to the clavicle straining at pale tawny skin and peeking through the t-shirt collars, the full, kissable lips and diamond-cutting jawline, the cheekbones, and—

Lance gasps, meeting those soft, gray eyes, glittering as if their bearer is actually happy to be here, in the real world.

“Sorry to keep you waiting,” Shiro says. With a smile, he extends a hand. “Lance, right?”

Everything Lance knows tells him to be cool, shake his hero’s hand, and just act normal.

Instead, with a sigh that they can probably hear at the campus library, Lance swoons onto Matt’s shoulder.

  


* * *

  


Blinking helplessly, Shiro watches as his attempt at a polite introduction, the kind that normal people easily get through every day, ends with what is technically not a rejected handshake? Or he guesses that it’s not? But Matt’s friend flops sideways, swoons as if deathly sick and struggling to stay conscious. At least Matt catches the poor guy, but all the same—

“Is he okay?”

Snorting in amusement, Matt gives Shiro a dismissive wave. “Oh yeah, he’ll be fine.”

“Are you sure?” Shiro wrinkles his nose. “He doesn’t really _look_ okay?”

“Actually, I’m kind of impressed. This is a remarkably restrained response, for him.”

About the only reason Shiro doesn’t shake his head to rattle any misplaced mental wires, is that he doesn’t want to send water all over the floor and table, or otherwise make it rain inside. Bringing the storm with him should—like the black dog allegedly pursuing Shiro, or like the void in his chest that hides both a black hole and a white one—remain exclusively in the realm of metaphor. Besides, in all likelihood, he’d mostly get it on the floor, which would make a mess that the coffee-shop’s employees don’t deserve, or else on Ryou, who doesn’t need the indignity of his older brother splattering him like a dog with no functional sense of boundaries or consequences.

On top of that, Shiro’s could send torrents of rainwater into someone’s coffee, and that might really put a damper on this meeting.

Unperturbed by anything, Matt pats his friend’s head. “Dude, come on. Why are you being precious.”

“Did I do something wrong?” Shiro swallows thickly, wishing he could take that question back before it makes someone here decide to worry about him. “I mean—was I, like—”

With a gasp, Matt’s friend springs back into sitting up. “I’m sorry,” he blurts out, blue eyes shining with a look that Shiro can’t interpret, for all it reassures him that everything just might work out. “I’m so, so, _so_ sorry—I didn’t even—of course you didn’t—you didn’t do—nothing wrong at all, why would you ever, you’re just so—” Eagerly nodding, he squeals. His hand only reaches for Shiro because Matt jostles his needle-skinny arm, then holds him in place by the elbow. “Hi, my name is Lance—er, I mean, Esparza—Lance Esparza—I’m _such_ a fan of your music, and your voice, and you? I…”

When Matt elbows him, Lance breaks out in a grin. “I can’t believe you’re really _here_?”

“Yeah, well. You aren’t the only one?” Forcing himself to keep up his own smile, Shiro squeezes Lance’s hand. “I really _am_ sorry for keeping you guys waiting. Some things came up that I didn’t plan for—or that I didn’t entirely plan for. And I meant to get in touch, but…” Sighing, he nudges his hip at Ryou’s shoulder. “When I stopped, I stumbled into a total dead zone. Didn’t have reception.”

“Fair enough, I guess.” Which might soothe Shiro’s nerves more effectively if Ryou could say without grousing like any of Aunt Satomi’s cats. Squinting up at him, Ryou drawls, “ _Niichan_ , we have these great inventions, perhaps you’ve heard of them? They’re called _umbrellas_. You put them up and they keep you dry when—”

“The forecast this morning called for _snow_ , not freezing rain—”

“If I acquiesce that you’re right, are you gonna explain what held you up so long?”

“Is, ‘understandable albeit frustrating human error’ an acceptable response?”

“Mmm, it’s a good start, but? Considering how long it’s been, Kashi? No. Definitely insufficient.”

“Then I’d prefer not to answer, if that’s alright with you.”

That should settle the matter. Should move things along and get Shiro sitting down so he can properly meet Matt’s friends, like a person who didn’t spend six weeks at an inpatient rehab after needing his brother to all but drag him there, who’s never fallen in love with a self-admitted monster, who’s capable of eating lunch without pondering every bite like a philosophical treatise, and who actually got meaningful sleep last night.

To steady himself, since he’s done nothing wrong, Shiro curls his hand around the little orange bottle in his coat pocket. His elbow bumps into Usa-chan as he lets it drop. For now, though, she stays safe in his hoodie, underneath his coat and protected from the weather. Taking her out in front of Matt and Ulaz proved difficult enough. Hunk and Lance could think Usa-chan is weird, or that Shiro’s pathetic for keeping her at all, much less carrying her around. So, he contents himself with his bottle, at the risk of letting people know it’s there. Pills rattle against the plastic, but if Ryou hears, then he doesn’t let it show.

Instead, he opts for scowling at Shiro in stony silence.

“Your face will get stuck like that if you aren’t careful,” Shiro deadpans. “Didn’t you listen to Mom.”

Scrunching up his face in that annoyingly pensive, unflappably inquisitive way of his, Ryou nods as if considering the proposition. Except his face slips into the sort of look that, once upon a time, typically preceded him running to Mom or Dad or Ojiisan, ready to rat on Shiro for sneaking home after curfew. Or tattle on him for climbing out his bedroom window and down the trellis or the old oak tree, thereby getting out of the house despite being grounded, never mind that he’d only ridden his bike to the library. Or snitch on him for hiding books that Obaasan wasn’t supposed to be letting him read because, apparently, the presence of hobbits meant that ten-year-olds could handle stories of war, death, societal decline, fantasy racism, and genocide—but oh boy, Queen Cersei got busted wrestling naked with her brother, and that was _terrible_.

“Yeah, cool, keep staring at me, little brother.” Shiro openly rolls his eyes because why shouldn’t he, when Ryou’s acting so obnoxious? “I hear there’s a hidden picture, if you focus hard enough. It looks like me and Cameron, junior year, making out in my bed after his first girlfriend dumped him.”

Over by the wall, Lance snorts approvingly and it’s like a sunburst goes off in Shiro’s chest.

“Or maybe it looks like this.” With a smirk, Shiro holds up his left hand’s middle finger.

Ryou arches the most singularly unimpressed eyebrow. “Well, fine, if you’re gonna be a brat about it.” He’s on his feet in a blink, motioning for Shiro to lean in closer. “Let me smell your breath, Kashi. Unless you’ve got something to hide.”

In the booth, Matt inhales sharply, then falls silent. Wide, whisky-colored eyes threaten to bulge out of his head, bouncing between Shiro and Ryou like Matt’s watching the most intense of all possible tennis matches. Although the round-cheeked, soft-bellied guy beside Matt stays quiet, sinking in his seat, he also gulps and tries to pretend like his face hasn’t contorted in a tight cringe. Whether or not Matt told Lance and the big guy (Hunk, right?) about where Shiro’s been lately—unlikely, because Matt knows better than to spill somebody else’s story like that—Big Man can tell that _something’s_ going on. Maybe the air between Shiro and his brother stinks like particularly overprotective garbage.

On the edge of the booth and wide-eyed, Lance lights up with recognition, too. Yet, he watches Shiro without a hint of judgment. Maybe he hasn’t put together all the pieces. Maybe he’s developed the wrong sorts of ideas about what’s happening. Maybe he’s drawn the right conclusions and doesn’t care. Whatever gets closest to the truth, the gleam in Lance’s eyes _believes_ in Shiro hard enough to _burn_. If Shiro didn’t know better, he’d swear that he hears something crackling.

Stiffly folding his arms over his chest, Shiro turns back to Ryou. “I don’t have anything to prove to you,” he says, for all it isn’t wholly accurate.

Under the pressure of Ryou’s silent scrutiny, Shiro struggles not to fold in on himself. His narrowed eyes, his pursed lips, his rigid posture like he’s trying to pretend he’s Dad, his broad hands squishing into his round, thick-padded hips as if Shiro _needs_ this reminder that Ryou’s put on weight instead of him, even though he’s the one who’s sick—everything focuses on Shiro with a mind to grind him into dust. Or simply disregard for that potential side-effect. Who knows? Perhaps Ryou couldn’t speak to his own motivations any better than Shiro can.

Making no sound, Ryou shoots out an impatient frown. Good for him, he feels so put-upon; _he_ isn’t the one who’s getting dragged through this half-baked public humiliation. While Shiro plants his feet, Ryou crooks his fingers again and waves for Shiro to come on closer.

“Yeah,” Shiro huffs. “Because doing it again is _really_ gonna change my answer.”

“I’d like to hope it would, yes.”

“Well, I’d like to hope that you’d get used to disappointment already, after everything we’ve been through, but here we are…”

“You don’t disappoint me, _niichan_ ,” Ryou says as though he actually believes it. “You’re grating my nerves right now, but not so much on this completely ridiculous notion you’ve got about disappointing—”

“Quit trying to sweet-talk me. The answer is, ‘No.’”

“You are going on an _hour_ late. I believe that you didn’t have reception where you stopped, but you haven’t told me where that was—”

“I. Do not. Have anything. To _prove_ to you. Ryou.”

“It’s not about _proof_. It’s a matter of _concern_ —”

“Which you want me to dispel by _proving something_ to you. Yes. Exactly.”

“After what you did this morning, Kashi?”

A chill slams into Shiro at those words. The snippy retort dies in his throat, while he forces himself to look directly at his brother, like the adults that they’re supposed to be. Ryou didn’t hear him this morning, right? Shiro ran the shower to drown himself out, and if Ryou heard him puking anyway, then why didn’t he say something? He could’ve called Shiro out when everything was fresh, and new, and actually relevant to anyone. Was he keeping this slip-up on tap, entirely so he could remind Shiro of it in order to win a later argument?

On one hand, Ryou would. On the other, he usually doesn’t pull that kind of stunt with Shiro—not _usually_. So many possible explanations racket around his skull, refusing to let each other develop into anything fully-formed, which means Shiro can’t get a fix on the potential answers that might better reflect what Ryou thinks he’s going for. Which only makes him shiver more deeply and worry that he might sick up all over the floor.

God, he better not let that happen. After today—after what Shiro did and how Ryou might’ve heard him after all, despite his attempts at defensive countermeasures—Ryou might claim that Shiro threw up on the Daily Grind’s floor intentionally. Probably not, but Shiro thought that the clinic’s staff would’ve seen the difference between deliberate, self-induced purging and the sort of vomiting that sneaks up on someone out of nowhere, then knocks them down, sends them running for the nearest wastebasket with only the faintest hope that they’ll make it there in time, and leaves them utterly, completely wrecked—but more than once, he needed to spell that out for them.

 _“I can see so many potential stressors or triggers that could have led us here,”_ said Nikita, one of the older therapists at the clinic, after the third time that Shiro interrupted a group session by losing his lunch in the trashcan by the door. _“Emotional resonance with what Roberta and Kevin were just sharing.… The strain of detox, of course, but you_ ** _have_** _seemed fidgety.… Perhaps anxiety building throughout today’s conversation.… Why don’t you tell us for yourself? What’s going on inside of you, Takashi?”_

 _“Gastric pyrotechnics,”_ Shiro deadpanned before he could stop himself. _“I thought that was obvious.”_

As Nikita frowned, his bone-white eyebrows quivered like fat, restless caterpillars. _“I mean to ask: how do you feel?”_

_“I feel deeply annoyed that I can’t get sick without somebody trying to tell me it has anything to do with how—”_

Tightening his fist in his sleeve, Shiro jerks his head. “That’s not about you, _niichan_ ,” he mumbles.

“Oh, it’s not, is it?”

“ _No_ , Ryou, it _isn’t_.” Making himself take deep, slow, measured breaths, Shiro fixes his gaze on Ryou. “It’s Thursday evening, November fourteenth, 2013. I’m in a coffee-shop in Keaton, Massachusetts. Meeting up with you, my brother, and our friend, Matt, and two of his other friends—”

“Got it, I got it.” Ryou slouches as he adds, “Sorry, Kashi. I didn’t mean—”

“I know you didn’t—”

“I wasn’t trying—anything like that—it was the _last_ thing that I wanted—”

“I _know_ —”

“Did you… Was it about, you know—”

“Almost went to Minnesota, not Chicago,” Shiro tells him, voice low, even though he stands his ground, refusing to lean in closer to Ryou, and the other three can probably hear what he’s saying just fine. “It didn’t even get that bad? But it could have, so…”

All harshness forgotten, Ryou nods in understanding. “I’m proud of you, Kashi. You know that, right? For doing right by yourself. For interrupting it before…” Gesturing vaguely, he makes a sound like he doesn’t know exactly how to phrase what’s on his mind, and all up, Ryou probably doesn’t. Recovery’s thrown him headlong into a learning process as much as it has Shiro. “Instead of letting your memories run roughshod over you? Or whatever you call it when that happens?”

“Yeah.…” Shiro sighs. “Right.… Thanks, Ryou.”

“Y’know, like what happened to you this morning? And what you _did_ this morning? So…”

Ryou trails off with an upward inflection so pointed, it could double as an ice-pick. Obviously, he expects an answer. Probably, he thinks that, because he’s played his cards like this, Shiro’s going to give in and submit to this garbage makeshift breathalyzer.

Glowering, Shiro reiterates, “ _No_. Stop asking.”

“ _Kashi_ ,” Ryou whines. “Personally, I find your delay in getting here, and your resistance right now, incredibly worrisome—”

“Well, I find you _obnoxious_ , right now. And this whole thing is so—”

“Do you really want to do this? In front of them?” He gestures at Hunk, Lance, and Matt, none of whom have stopped staring at Shiro and Ryou, or stopped soaking in the argument they’re playing out. “Because I know what you did this morning, okay? Period, I just know. And I don’t _want_ to hash this out in front of them—”

“Then _don’t_ ,” Shiro snaps. He hugs himself more tightly, trying to ignore how heavy his bag weighs on his shoulders and the way his chest feels like someone’s reached inside him and replaced his heart with a chunk of ice. Without his consent, his shoulders hunch in around him. Beneath his cocoon of layered clothing, Shiro trembles like he might never stop. But he _needs_ to stop, or his shirts might stick on the crags and ridges along his back, where he used to have a normal spine and shoulder-blades. “You’re the one who’s dragging this out, Ryou. Not me. We can stop whenever you decide to _trust me_.”

Despite the big game he talks, Shiro can’t get his shivers back under control. Not with the way that Ryou’s watching him, the way he pouts and squints like he’s arguing with a hidden picture puzzle. He straightens his back again, and clears his throat when he catches Shiro staring at his big stomach, rounding out before him and straining his poor, wrinkling button-up. When he only gets his Kashi to slouch even lower, Ryou insists that he _knows_ what Shiro did and honestly, yes, it gives Ryou every right to put the burden of proof on his brother—his beloved brother, his _only_ brother, his Kashi, his own personal superhero—

  


* * *

  


_“I_ ** _know_** _what you did, Takashi.”_

Maurice said things like that that so many times, Shiro stopped bothering to count them all. But now, his mind summons the ghost of an incident that happened one Sunday morning, up at Haxus and Maurice’s townhouse.

Following the punishment that Shiro had earned by calling Keith—the wrath he’d called down on his own head by trying to let Keith know that he’d done nothing wrong and none of this horrible situation had been his fault—Shiro had dove headlong back into the sweet, numbing comfort at the first available opportunity. He’d only had his pills and tequila back for about two weeks. Two-and-a-half, maybe, at the absolute most. He couldn’t keep track.

Which counted as a substantial improvement on _not_ having access to them, sure enough. Still, as he heard Maurice purring that velvet-gloved threat that didn’t want anyone to acknowledge what it was, Shiro couldn’t recall how he’d survived two entire weeks without his medicines. Simply existing as a human person on planet Earth wore him down so much that he could barely breathe. What was the point of it, really? What was the point of anything, when Shiro only ever earned pain? True, he brought it on himself, hence why it kept happening—but this fact meant that Shiro could’ve stopped his own suffering.

All he needed to do, was hold himself together. He’d dug his initial hole with Maurice through his own weakness, lack of moral fiber, and inability to control himself. Of course, that was the reason. If Shiro had smothered his feelings and reined himself in months before—if he hadn’t broken his promise not to fall in love with Keith, shattered it as easily as he so often violated the bounds of his own self-imposed diets—then he would’ve stayed at their old apartment. He wouldn’t have mistaken genuine devotion for possessiveness, then forced Maurice’s hand by trying to cut him off. In all likelihood, Keith would’ve made it to a university by now, if not for Shiro.

Seated on one of the high stools by the kitchen’s island countertop, he told himself to keep breathing. Slow and steady, as much as he could manage. Silently, he racked his brain for anything he’d done recently—anything he’d slipped up about—times he’d played his music too loudly, times he’d taken too much advantage of any given situation and got away with restricting how much he ate, times he’d talked back too much and gotten off too easily—anything to clue him in about which specific screw-up of his Maurice had in mind.

 _“Pretending that you cannot hear me changes nothing about our current predicament, sweet boy.”_ Chuckling venomously, Maurice clamped his fingers around Shiro’s shoulder like a vise. _“Though, as ever, I do admire your spirit.”_

Shiro shrugged and poked his spoon at his bowl of instant oatmeal. One of the only things he was allowed to cook, he’d whipped it up for himself, rather than letting Maurice make his breakfast and risk needing to force his way through something that he would’ve hated keeping down. Shiro was in Maurice’s teeth enough, as it stood, playing with permafrost and black ice instead of fire by trying to keep his own eating habits, his own practices at the gym. Getting caught red-handed, in the act of purging? Could’ve made Maurice crack down in ways that Shiro had no desire to imagine.

With Shiro’s luck, dreaming up his own ideas would’ve psychically transmitted them to Maurice, handed him an easy way to make whatever he did to Shiro ten times worse. Or twenty times worse. Or even a hundred times worse, if he felt it necessary to make his point. Whatever point he had in mind, today, which Shiro still couldn’t have guessed, not even to save Ryou’s life, or Keith’s (if Maurice had decided to rescind his promise to leave Keith alone), or anybody’s.

Trying to predict the fallout of Maurice’s wrath, however, also could have exacerbated Shiro’s comeuppance. Whether he guessed wrong or Maurice simply didn’t appreciate his presumption, Shiro so easily could have ruined things more than he already had.

Silence, too, threatened to drag everything to Hell. Owning whatever he’d done, that had the surest chance of avoiding Maurice’s wrath—and it wasn’t even a certainty. But perhaps, it offered the most hopeful outcomes.

 _“I’m sorry,”_ Shiro started, lest he let the silence drag on for too much longer. _“I wasn’t ignoring you—”_

_“You did allow me to feel that way, though. Always so callous, aren’t you.”_

_“Sorry. I didn’t mean to.”_

_“Of course you didn’t. You never_ ** _intend_** _to hurt me, do you?”_

_“Of course not.”_ Saying so made Shiro’s stomach lurch as though he might be sick. It didn’t feel right—but he couldn’t let that show in his face. Kneading his thumb against the edge of his spoon, he sighed. _“I’d apologize for whatever else I did this time, too? However I messed up? But I can’t—I’m trying to think of what it was? Or could’ve been? But I…”_

Vaguely, he wished that Haxus had been present, rather than visiting the nearby Eastern Orthodox Church whose parishioners were mostly Galra. As far as Shiro knew, Haxus had the devotion of a wet saltine, believed in himself and Maurice and whatever they called “love” more than any gods or saints, and considered religion and spirituality little more than petty, backwards superstitions. Yet, he valued the rituals and the social connections that came with attending the Sunday morning services that he’d grown up with.

Not that Haxus would’ve taken Shiro’s side for his sake. But he was a doctor. If nothing else, he might have pointed out how was making it harder for Shiro to eat, which could’ve made it easier for him to overdose and/or poison himself with alcohol. Neither outcome would have furthered Maurice’s alleged goal of keeping his _sweet boy_ alive.

 _“I suppose your confusion makes an unfortunate degree of sense, considering…”_ With his free hand, Maurice tapped the counter, right next to Shiro’s bowl. Shifting to do so brought Maurice dangerously close, allowed him to crowd in on Shiro and press his hard, broad chest against Shiro’s back. _“Aside from how direly you need to eat, what you did this time might well have slipped your mind.”_

 _“Because you think I haven’t eaten enough?”_ As Maurice grabbed his other shoulder, Shiro amended, _“Because I’ve_ ** _made you_** _think that?”_

 _“Mmm, that you have, sweet boy. Through your actions and your failings. So very many of them.… But I have understood them, and forgiven you, time and time again. And I shall continue to do so for you, as long as you take ownership of your mistakes. Admit them to both of us.…”_ Maurice huffed as though indulging Shiro’s most exhausting whims and nosed at the back of his head.

Nodding at that cue, Shiro bared his neck in the exact way that Maurice had painstakingly trained into him. If it didn’t improve Maurice’s mood to see his sweet boy demuring without being asked, then at least Shiro could say that he’d tried.

The threat that this gesture wouldn’t work loomed over everything. Yes, Shiro had tried to please Maurice—but he’d been trying ever since the first time he’d wanted so badly to submit to Maurice, longed to feel the satisfying sting of Maurice’s lash tearing into his back, the pleasurable pain of holding still while Maurice drizzled hot wax on his chest and stomach, the gasps rushing into him when Maurice’s hand cracked on his cheek or ass. Or maybe the first time that he’d asked about that, about how Maurice would’ve felt, dominating him in bed, giving Shiro orders and thoroughly using him, until Shiro let go and got lost in an oblivion of deep sensation. Or perhaps, the first time that he’d begged for the privilege of Maurice’s favor, the release of entirely giving himself over to Maurice’s will.

Too many different versions of these events clattered around in Shiro’s mind, scrambling themselves up in each other until he felt like he’d gotten swept up in a tempest, like he clung to the most rickety driftwood and nevertheless, barely kept his head above water. No good to sort through them, right that second. No use in dwelling on the question of how things had come to be the way they were, when every explanation eventually came back to Shiro’s failings and all the ways that he had wronged Maurice.

But Shiro’s memories refused to let him have his way. Dimly, as he choked down a spoonful of oatmeal, Shiro recalled yet another possibility. God help him, he remembered sitting on the bed in one of Maurice’s ritzy hotel rooms, listening while he explained that he so rarely saw a boy as many times as he’d seen Shiro— _“Certainly never one who won’t open himself up to experimenting with me, to pressing his limits and venturing into extreme territories. I would offer you that opportunity…”_ —and rocking toward the edge of the mattress, Shiro held his breath.

Balled up in the comforter, Shiro’s hands trembled as Maurice told him of things that he’d tried before, of whips, and cuffs, and paraffin wax, and pretty boys who’d all been sated by the delights Maurice could give to Shiro, if he wanted them. He salivated while Maurice spelled out ideas that, fortunately, strayed close to Shiro’s own fantasies, for all Maurice mentioned some things that Shiro hadn’t previously considered or that sounded far less fun than others. He nodded when Maurice reiterated that he would bid Shiro farewell if they could not indulge in each other in these ways, that they needn’t play so hard every time but they could never see each other again without at least the chance—

 _“But of course, there would be no hard feelings between us,”_ Maurice promised through his teeth. _“Unfortunately, so many boys lack the fortitude to let me open them up and show them who they are. Such things ultimately scare them, or perhaps they cannot withstand the pain that accompanies the pleasure.”_

Tucking his fingers under Shiro’s chin, Maurice kept him in place without restraining him. His good eye glittered like the heirloom signet ring he wore, with his maternal family’s coat of arms from old Daibazaal. _“I believe that you have all the strength, the self-control, and the spirit that I require in a submissive, Takashi—but this can only happen, if you wish to accept such a generous invitation. Only if you truly wish to give yourself to me.”_

At the kitchen counter, Shiro’s fingers tightened around his spoon. He swallowed thickly, oatmeal seemingly turned to a boulder and trying to stick in his throat. A whispered approval rustled on his skin, regardless. Maurice’s smooth lips and sandpaper stubble struck the back of his neck with a barrage of kisses, each one so light that Shiro reeled. It felt like trying to breathe underwater. Like trying to pull himself out of an abyss, only for Maurice’s hand to shove him down again and hold him under.

The way Maurice crushed on Shiro’s back, pressing so close that a breath couldn’t have snuck between their bodies, felt like getting buried alive. His heartbeat could’ve been the sound of someone nailing Shiro’s coffin shut.

One instinct in him screamed to fight Maurice off and run, run away into the gray Chicago morning and the humid snug of early June, run as far and as fast as his legs could carry him. High or not, and no matter how much breakfast he still had left to eat, Shiro had the distinct speed advantage. He could’ve made a break for it and fled.

Down on the counter, his phone gleamed like egging him toward that course of action. Shiro could’ve snatched it up, grabbed his wallet off the kitchen table, and made a break for it. He could’ve hopped on the El, or found a cab to catch. Maybe Keith was still at the old apartment. Maybe he’d forgive Shiro for lying to him about leaving to get help. Maybe they could get to O’Hare International and used Shiro’s credit card to make a break for it, escape to Ryou in Massachusetts, or Satomi in Rancho Cucamonga, or Mom’s family in Kyoto because Maurice never would’ve looked for Shiro in Japan, not with how Mom’s family felt about acknowledging him.

 _Or maybe,_ said another instinct flaring up cold in Shiro’s chest, _maybe running would only make this worse. He could find you anywhere. He could write up some order to keep you and Keith from flying anywhere. He could get you both hauled into police custody, send Keith down in flames for any pills you forgot at the apartment, and keep you safe on the outside so you could live with the guilt because everything would be your fault._

Oblivious to his sweet boy’s inner machinations, Maurice rubbed at Shiro’s shoulders.

 _“Keep going,”_ he whispered, too gently to trust. A viper hid in those words somewhere, venomous, sharp, and impossibly temperamental. Only a matter of time until it reared its head and snapped its fangs into Shiro’s flesh. Delicate caresses, like Maurice’s hands resting soft and feather-light on Shiro’s biceps, would always give way to suffering, and pain, and so much darkness, Shiro couldn’t see how any hypothetical light would help.

 _“You’ve nearly finished, sweet boy,”_ Maurice told him, his voice like an anchor that refused to let Shiro drift too far into his own thoughts. _“I know that you can get through this. Do it for me.”_

Not that his opinion mattered, but Shiro didn’t see how he’d nearly finished anything. Every bite only made his bowl seem fuller, as if the oatmeal could multiply like bacteria, as if it had a mind to swarm and suffocate him. Shoving another spoonful in his mouth, Shiro almost allowed himself to slouch on the counter. But Maurice wouldn’t have appreciated that sign of disrespect. Whenever Shiro got into this position, he needed to maintain good posture, a straight back, only bending at the neck to show proper deference and to give Maurice his due.

According to him, he was due a great deal. The list had never been small—since they’d first entered a more formal entanglement, he’d asked Shiro for several things, both in and out of the bedroom—and the past few years had only increased Maurice’s number of demands. But he made good on his promises, sometimes. He gave the rewards and protections that he’d sworn to Shiro, if he upheld his end of their arrangement. He only withheld anything because Shiro had let him down (by abstruse standards that Shiro had long given up on understanding, since they changed so often and his notions usually turned out wrong).

Maybe, in the hotel room, he’d warned Shiro that things would end this way. Maybe Shiro had missed some crucial detail, or assumed too much about what he was getting into and what he could handle, or failed to understand how much he really owed Maurice. Maybe Shiro overlooked the one thing above all others that would’ve taken, _“I will never harm you. I will never violate you. I will never do unto you anything that you do not want. All that I require is your obedience, your commitment, your respect, your loyalty, your devotion, and above all else, your trust. Give all of yourself to me, and I will give you everything,”_ then translated it so none of where they’ve found themselves would ever feel wrong again.

When Shiro agreed to those terms, Maurice smiled like an oil spill, ghosting the back of his hand and its smooth, thick hair down Shiro’s cheek. He sighed contentedly and told Shiro, _“You’ve made me very happy today, sweet boy. I look forward to sharing this play with you, and hopefully, showing you yourself.”_

Sometimes, Maurice would swear that it had never happened, that night in the hotel. Other times, he’d acquiesce that he could vaguely remember some incident or other that Shiro could have misconstrued so badly, painting Maurice in such an unfairly villainous light. Often, he’d coo that Shiro had such a brilliantly creative mind— _“For all you inexplicably insist on drowning it in tequila and burning your beautiful potential out with opiates”_ —and his sweet boy couldn’t help but invent such wild stories, then his emotional sensitivity and how powerfully he felt things would convince him that his dreams had really happened.

 _“But it isn’t your fault,”_ he’d tell Shiro, whenever that line of thought came up. Tenderly, he would cup his hand around Shiro’s face, shushing him even when he had no intention of objecting or truly questioning anything Maurice had said. _“It’s merely a side-effect of your talents. Of course you don’t mean to hurt me like this, you never_ ** _intend_** _for such things to happen. I understand, sweet boy, and I forgive you. You can’t control your imagination any more than humans can stop breathing.”_

…God, how _had_ they even started on this? When _did_ Maurice start teaching Shiro how to bare his neck?

The hotel room—that conversation there—it all felt so clear in Shiro’s mind. Clear as a diamond, certain as the laws of gravity, and real as the oatmeal mushing around his mouth, sticking to his tongue and teeth before he choked it down. But how many things had he imagined with Keith? How many times had he felt _so sure_ that Keith had a smile reserved exclusively for him, or that he might have ever been special to Keith, the sort of so-called love that lifted him up rather than dragging him through to nineteen kinds of Hell that he never should’ve had to deal with?

This much was clear: Shiro couldn’t trust his own mind. Not really. The mountain of oatmeal he’d thought remained in his bowl disappeared so much more quickly than he expected, too. As his spoon clinked against the porcelain, Shiro tried not to dwell on it much—had he been seeing things? he shouldn’t have, he hadn’t taken any hallucinogens, not unless Haxus had toyed with his medication but Shiro would’ve noticed, and Maurice would’ve flown into a rage if Haxus had done that—but the only thing that kept him from floating off, was the way Maurice massaged his shoulders, pinching at knots of tension and working his heavy thumbs deep into Shiro’s muscles.

The gasps shocked into Shiro. The throaty sighs and tight, whimpering noises crept out of him without waiting for his consent. He didn’t have the energy to make sounds like that, himself. Not when it felt like his body had turned to stone and pure exhaustion.

 _“Thank you, sweet boy,”_ Maurice said, kissing Shiro’s top vertebra. _“I appreciate your obedience, your dedication.”_

Shiro nodded. _“I want to crawl out of my skin and puke until I lose my soul. But, sure, good job, me.”_

 _“Guilt certainly can sour any well-earned sense of accomplishment.”_ Another kiss. Another scrape of stubble against Shiro’s skin. Another chuckle, sounding so indulgent—and then, Maurice nipped at Shiro’s ear. _“I already know what you did. Perhaps a confession would do you some good, Takashi.”_

 _“…I purged yesterday,”_ Shiro admitted, spitting out the first thing that came to mind and hoping that it was what Maurice meant to call him out on. True, Shiro didn’t think he’d left any clues—but maybe he’d missed something. _“You made me breakfast. But when you and Haxus went out with your mother, I went and I made myself sick, I—I only held off? On my morning meds, I mean? I only waited to take them because I knew what I was going to do. I’m sorry, Maurice, I know what kind of work you did—I know you did it for me, I’m sorry—I’m so, so sorry—the only day I didn’t purge this past week was Tuesday, I’m—I know you don’t like it, I know I said I’d stop, but I_ ** _couldn’t_** _—I tried, but I needed—I—”_

At the sound of Maurice shushing him softly, Shiro went quiet. He froze while Maurice trailed kisses up his neck.

 _“Oh, sweet boy. I thought you were doing so well. Do I need to revise the rules that you need to follow?”_ A shake of the head only made Maurice bark out a laugh. Unruffled, he slipped his hand under Shiro’s jaw and into his throat; any wrong moves and no doubt, Maurice would’ve choked Shiro without hesitation. _“However, I referred to how you dug the scale out from where Haxus hid it away.”_

 _“I—But, I—that isn’t what I—”_ Shiro winced as Maurice’s grip tightened. _“I had to_ ** _know_** _, okay? You haven’t let me—I haven’t checked—not in_ ** _weeks_** _, alright, Maurice? I needed to know how much, but I haven’t weighed myself since I was still detoxing—”_

_“Did you not consider that there is a reason for this? A reason why I have chosen to revoke that particular privilege?”_

_“It’s just letting me see how much I weigh. It isn’t hurting anyone—”_

_“How can you sit here and lie to me so boldly,_ ** _Takashi_** _?”_ Clamping down harder on Shiro’s throat again, Maurice drawled that name—Shiro’s full given name, the one he’d inherited from Ojiisan—as if spitting poison. _“Whatever numbers you find on the scale any given morning? You use them to demean yourself, to justify self-starvation and pushing yourself beyond limits that you refuse to let me visit—”_

_“It isn’t_ ** _hurting_** _anybody, though!”_

_“These behaviors hurt_ ** _you_** _, sweet boy. Consistently and—”_

_“So what?”_

_“I beg your—”_ Maurice shifted his hand and clenched it around Shiro’s jaw. _“Do you want to get well again? Or have you decided to spit on all my attempts at helping you? Do my sacrifices mean nothing to you?”_ Tracing his thumb down Shiro’s face, he repeated in a hiss, _“Do you_ ** _want_** _to get well again?”_

Shiro swallowed thickly. Before he could stop it, his mouth spit out, _“What if—suppose I don’t?”_

He whined as Maurice dug his fingers in harder. _“That is no longer your call to make, Takashi. You have lost—”_

“—Kashi? … _Kashi_?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *casually drops this chapter and runs to finish the last one because it’s almost done, and this chapter’s cliffhanger feels cruel*


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> —I feel like there’s something that needs an extra warning, in this chapter, but looking at it, I’m not sure if anything isn’t covered by the tags already.
> 
> There are brief references to some of Shiro and Ryou’s extended family thinking that the twins are _too close_ because they’re more openly expressive and affectionate with each other than the aunts, uncles, cousins, and grandparents on their late mother’s side of the family are comfortable with?
> 
> Lance also has a moment where his questionable self-esteem collides with preemptive rejection-sensitive dysphoria, and this makes him get really down on himself? Overall, Shiro and Lance are a pair of disasters, but they’re disasters who click and offer each other friendship?
> 
> Anyway, here’s “Wonderwall.” By which I mean, “The last of this particular story, in which Lance and Shiro hit it off, stumble a little, but still become friends.”

“ _Kashi!_ ”

Eyes clenching shut, Shiro jolts back to himself. A hand drops to his shoulder. Heartbeat spikes— _oh no, oh God, oh no_ —but he fumbles, trying to knock the interloper off of him. Batting helplessly, he goes for their wrist. Then, at their forearm. Neither move gets him anywhere. Nothing like progress. His breaths are shallow, barely there, and the hand stays on his shoulder, but Shiro keeps swatting.

Whoever’s got him, they squeeze harder. Clinging, almost. But are they really? Do they care what happens to him? Their hand quivers around his bones and ligaments, nearly letting up before doubling down, clamping onto Shiro as if their life depends on it. Except it doesn’t hurt. It should, though. Pain should rocket through him, wrack his body with aches and shakes until he wants to be sick and die. No one ever grabs Shiro like this unless they want to hurt him.

Maybe they’re waiting, as if that’s more polite. Harm coming earlier, though—Shiro wishes that it would. If they clear up that issue—if they cut to the hurt and get it out of the way quickly—not that there’s any guarantee; there _isn’t_ —no guarantees, no assurances, no covenants, not of anything, not ever—but if his captor won’t hurt him and get it over with, then Shiro needs to fight back, doesn’t he? When the hand jostles his shoulder, he can’t just take it, right? Doesn’t he need to get himself free, whatever it takes?

Energy’s in short supply. Still, Shiro lays his trembling fingers on his captor’s arm. He finds more softness than he expects, far more give than muscle, which makes him frown. Plus, the fabric isn’t right. Nothing like Maurice’s impossibly fine, custom-tailored tops. It’s too coarse, too wrinkled, too—

“ _Kashi_ ,” a soft, smooth voice says, keeping itself down low like a dirty little secret. “I’m with you. Can you open your eyes and look at me? Please?”

He shivers, but complies. Finds himself watched by dove grey eyes exactly like his own and just like Mom’s—

“Ryou,” he whispers, and the hand gently rubs his shoulder. “I’m not in Chicago—”

“No, you aren’t. You never need to be again—”

“It’s Keaton, Massachusetts. That’s where we are.” Shiro’s body sags, but Ryou nods at him. Relief floods through him, hot and fast, and Shiro’s head spins, struggling to keep up with it. But he makes himself stay standing. Straightens up as much as he can. Nods for his own sake, no matter who can see him do it, and mutters, “November 14th. Thursday evening. We’re at the Daily Grind, Matt’s coffee-shop—”

“Yes. Yes, exactly, Kashi- _niichan_ —”

“You’re mad at me. At least, right now. Because I showed up late to meet you—”

“I’m not _mad_ about that, Kashi. I’m concerned, because I love you, but I wasn’t—”

“You’re _acting_ mad. Talking about how you know what I did. Never saying what it was, but still, you—” Coughing, Shiro ducks his chin. Tears spill down his hollow cheeks in thin, hot streams. They don’t even have the grace to let him protest or try to hold them back. “Like you’re digging for the answer. You’ve got it in mind, but you won’t—it’s like you want to bait me into spelling it out for you. Like—like, like, like—like, I don’t even _know_ , okay, but…”

Shiro scrubs his sleeve over his eyes. Hopefully, not hard enough to scrape off any skin. He couldn’t handle explaining that right now. Just like he can’t admit: he _does_ know what he feels, for once. Nothing about it muddles his head or leaves him grasping at the universe’s most hopelessly confused pile of bent-up straws.

But he can’t accuse Ryou of what he’s feeling. Can’t tell him that he’s doing anything like what Maurice would’ve done. Because he’s _not_ Maurice; he’s Ryou. He’d never mean to come off anything like that bastard, much less do his brother harm. Besides, those complaints would reek of unfairness. Ryou’s gone so far outside his way already, taken on so much that never should’ve fallen to him, shouldered so many burdens that were never his, carried Shiro when he—

“I’m sorry, Kashi,” Ryou says, cutting in as if he can tell that Shiro needs his train of thought dragged back onto the rails. His eyes glisten with an earnestness that few people ever get to see in him. Leaning in close, he slouches timidly. He hesitates before nudging their foreheads together, likely trying to make sure Shiro doesn’t startle any.

Softly, Ryou promises, “I’m sorry. I didn’t want to say it outright in front of the others, _niichan_. That’s all.”

“Which is completely fair!” Over by the wall, Matt shrinks toward Hunk’s broad, pillowy shoulder. Forcing an apologetic grin, he adds, “We all just want, y’know? For everyone to be okay? Or relatively like that?”

Even being relatively okay feels well beyond Shiro’s grasp, right now. It might never come back to him, not even with Ulaz’s new ideas or the prescription that he wrote for Shiro. But saying a thing like that would only make everybody feel miserable and awkward, so Shiro shoves the sentiment into the far back-corners of his mind. He’ll come back to it later, when he gets back to Ryou’s place and breaks out his journal.

For now, Shiro has people to meet. Conversations to survive. A brother who’s taking short, fast breaths, right up by his mouth, and—

“ _Really_ , Ryou?” Shiro rolls his eyes. If his brother’s going to be like this, then he can deal with Shiro getting exasperated. “After what you just pulled out—and sending me back to, like—are you _completely_ even—God, _fine_ , just…”

With one hand, he jerks Ryou’s wrist off his shoulder. The other hand dives into his coat pocket. Pills rattle against translucent orange plastic as Shiro curls Ryou’s fingers around the bottle. He should force his gaze up, now. Away from Ryou’s hand (which he should let Ryou pull away, not least because Ryou needs to see what Shiro’s talking about). With each thud of his heart, Shiro’s chest succumbs to tremors, like someone’s set his nerves on fire. He should look his little brother in the eye like an adult, and yet—

“I only stopped to get that filled, okay?” Cheeks flushing hot, Shiro bites down on a shudder. Makes himself let go of Ryou. “Something got snagged with my insurance. But I didn’t want to wait.”

He looks up in time to catch Ryou frowning at the bottle. Shiro’s breath hitches in his throat as a chill slams into him, washing down his spine like someone’s dumped twelve gallons of ice water on his head. No, no, no—please, no—this can’t happen—not like how it looks—Ryou can’t turn Shiro away, can’t leave him out here alone, not after everything they’ve been through, not with everything that Shiro has ahead of him.

Instead, Ryou’s eyes mist over as he says, in Japanese, _“Are you feeling okay?”_

 _“I just lost my grip on reality in front of people. How should I feel, after that?”_ Fixing Ryou with the flattest expression he can manage, Shiro sighs. _“Yes, I could be feeling worse. But I’ll live. And I didn’t expect Ulaz to hand me that prescription when we finished—I mean, I knew he was going to because he said he would? But I didn’t expect him to bring it up today. I guess I can’t be that surprised, though.”_

_“You can be however you need to feel, Kashi—”_

_“I have no idea what I need to feel—”_

“Hey, if they could do this the whole time,” Hunk mutters, “then why’d we need the detour through that other thing.”

“Dude, I have no idea. The Shirogane twins can be…” Arching an eyebrow over at the booth makes Matt blush guiltily. Regardless, he hisses, “They probably didn’t think of doing it.”

“I didn’t,” Ryou tells them, looking away from Shiro and narrowing his eyes. “Message received about having twin moments in front of y’all, though. Please, do keep talking about me and Kashi like we can’t hear what you’re saying.”

 _“Leave them alone, okay?”_ Wilting, Shiro nuzzles at Ryou’s cheek. _“Being a jerk to them doesn’t help me any.”_

_“I’m sorry, niichan.”_

_“I know you are. But I wish that you’d try harder to be nice, sometimes.”_ As Ryou shifts so their foreheads rest against each other, Shiro huffs. _“You don’t need to fight or snap at everybody like you do, idiot. Goddammit, you aren’t a turtle.”_

Ryou grumbles noncommittally. _“Matt said something like that before you got here.”_

_“Good. Try listening to us. It costs you nothing to be nice to people.”_

_“Maybe I’m in a testier mood than usual because I heard you vomiting this morning.”_

When Ryou tacks on an expectant expression, Shiro huffs at him and shrugs. _“What do you want? You heard me. I made myself sick again, and before I’d eaten breakfast. I don’t see a point in denying anything. I would only give you more reason to worry about me.”_

_“I worry about you because you’re my brother, Kashi. Because I love you and I want you to get well.”_

_“Hopefully, the meds will help with that. Ulaz said to give them two weeks, maybe three weeks, though. They need to settle in before I’ll truly feel any difference, and my brain needs to adjust to them.”_ Pocketing the bottle again, Shiro rubs his forehead against Ryou’s. _“Could you get me a coffee, please? The tallest, blackest Robusta that they’re legally allowed to serve?”_

 _“Of course, Kashi.”_ Which would be enough reassurance. Yet, as if Ryou doesn’t want to risk depriving his brother of any love, not even the smallest signs of it, he scoops Shiro up into a warm embrace. Burrowing against his brother’s plush chest and stomach, Shiro feels his messenger bag knock against Ryou’s thigh, which has got to hurt, given how much Shiro carries with him. If nothing else, the way it slams against him must make Ryou feel as uncomfortable as Mom’s brothers get about the two of them sharing affection so openly. 

Even so, getting hugged back makes Ryou whisper, _“I’m so glad you’re here, niichan.”_

 _“I’m working on it.”_ Even in Japanese, this refrain feels borderline perfunctory. But as Ryou rubs his back, Shiro can’t think of anything else to say for himself. _“You_ ** _do_** _help make it easier. Even when you’re overprotective and acting like a stupid jerk.”_

_“Hey, at least I’m a stupid jerk who doesn’t mind getting coffee for you.”_

With a chuckle, Ryou disentangles himself from Shiro and darts off toward the line.

Which, even though Shiro knew it would happen, leaves him with an emptiness, an ache where Ryou was until just now. It’s ridiculous when they didn’t even hug each other for that long—Ryou will come back soon, and now, without him here to hug, Shiro’s free to sit down, or hit the men’s room, or run home in the rain, or whatever else he could possibly do—but Shiro feels Ryou’s absence as if somebody’s taken his right arm or hacked his heart out of his chest. Dragging his fingers through his hair, Shiro tries to steady his fraying nerves and tells himself, _Just try to act normal. Don’t make a big deal out of anything. Just try to act like everything’s okay._

As he flops into the booth, it’s all Shiro can do to avoid glancing all over the coffee-shop, checking corners and blind-spots for anything untoward or anyone he doesn’t want to see. Doing that would definitely make him look like a headcase. Yes, he asked Matt to get them a booth where he could check things over more easily, so people would have fewer chances to sneak up on him—but Shiro shouldn’t show that off.

Wriggling out of his jacket, he tries to leave some distance between himself and the Matt-friend known as Hunk. He looks about Ryou’s size—maybe a bit wider and thicker overall, unlike Ryou, with his broad Shirogane shoulders and the dip in his belly, marking where he’d have a narrow waist if he weren’t so chubby—and if Shiro could get away with it on a first meeting, he might try leaning on Hunk’s shoulders. His sunshine yellow sweatshirt looks like it’d cradle someone’s head quite nicely, unlike Shiro’s hoodie, which hopefully, only makes him look less scrawny. Between his nice arms and his kind eyes, Hunk seems like the sort of person who’d give really good hugs.

Over on Matt’s other side, the skinny friend called Lance turns his back on the door, angling himself toward Shiro. He worries long fingers through his dark brown hair, blue eyes wide and sparkling as his tongue flits out over his lips. A protest builds in Shiro’s throat, like the ones he always lobs at Ryou for licking his lips when they’re already dry and cracking, but before he can say anything, Lance unpockets a tube of lip-chap. Shiro allows himself a sigh of relief—it’s good that he can’t embarrass himself or make this meeting rockier by presuming too much about what he can say to any of Matt’s other friends—and Lance’s sharp inhale sounds like he could squeal again.

But, voice low and warm, Lance asks, “So, what _did_ you make a stop for? Y’know, if you don’t mind saying?”

“Oh, I.” Shiro’s hand plunges into his hoodie’s pocket, squeezing Usa-chan around her plush middle. He can’t say anything stupid, can’t say anything risky, can’t say anything—“I was buying heroin.”

Hunk gulps audibly. On his other side, Matt goes pale and his mouth drops open. For his own part, Lance knots his brow and edges further onto the edge of his seat. No hints of judgment or condemnation come through in his face. If anything, Lance seems like he needs to know more about what’s going on, almost like he wants to help but can’t tell if he has anything to help with.

Not that Shiro would blame Lance for judging, if he wanted. Shiro can’t blame any of them. He cringes, hard, as his own brain catches up to his mouth. Were he in their positions, he’d think he sounded like a lunatic.

“I—but, you—Shiro, what the—I—Excuse me,” Matt splutters. “You _what_?”

Well, Shiro’s already dug himself half-a-grave. No sense in failing to commit. “‘Heroin’ is kind of a misnomer, I guess—”

“Uh, yeah, I sure freaking _hope_ so—”

“Technically, you can’t call it that—”

“And you didn’t get any other kinds of opia—”

“Because the substance I bought wasn’t of this world in the first place.”

“It’s fine that you were—I—but you…” Moaning bemusedly, Matt scrunches up his face like Duchess, the cat at Satomi and Naoko’s place who hates Shiro more than any of the others. He rubs at his temples, grumbling all the way, which no one in their right mind could hold against him, under the present circumstances. “Shiro, what in the holy purple cannibals, Batman, are you talking about?”

“Oh, nothing, I just met a hot alien is all.” Resting his cheek in his palm, Shiro shrugs as if this sort of thing happens every day, right here, in the real world, rather than _Attack of the Vampire Nymphomaniacs from Planet Zandarr_ or something equally ridiculous that Shiro probably shouldn’t admit to liking. “He was lurking over in a scenic shady alley, like, a couple blocks off from Ulaz’s office? I sucked both of his dicks in exchange for some substance that’s supposed to be, like? Magical super space-heroin. But it isn’t derived from Terran poppies, so calling it heroin is _technically_ a misnomer.”

One more time, Hunk dives headlong into his drink, like a cute, incredibly flustered ostrich trying to avoid an emotionally overwrought potential confrontation that it frankly wants no part of. Beside him, Matt has about seventeen expressions spasm across his face. He gapes at Shiro, gets swept up in a wave of shocked, offended, huffing noises. They only end when Matt succumbs to groaning and faceplants on his forearms. But over on the far end of the booth, Lance has the weirdest reaction of anybody.

A smile erupts on his pointy face, and then, with a sound like sunshine, Lance starts laughing.

  


* * *

  


“Oh, my _God_ …”

Lance doesn’t mean to crack up like this; he really doesn’t.

He doesn’t mean to fold in on himself and fail to muffle his laughter behind his hand. He _really_ doesn’t mean to howl so loudly that somebody from a nearby table whines at him to just shut up already. After all the tension built up between their party—after Shiro froze up and spaced out, in the as yet unexplained way he did—Lance must sound half-insane, and he doesn’t mean to make things awkward, but Shiro— _the_ Shiro!—is here, sharing a table with Lance, and drinking coffee with him, and talking about—

“Okay, but wait, what _kind_ of dicks did the hot alien have, though?” Lance bounces in his seat, grinning so hard, his face aches. “Were they both the same, or were they different? Did they have knots, y’know, like the hot werewolves in _The Vampire Nymphomaniacs from Planet Zandarr Meet The Werewolf Bondage Queen_? Or were the dicks barbed? Did they have ridges like Ruffles chips? Oooh, oh, oh, oh! Were _tentacles_ involved?”

Down on the table, Matt mutters something that sounds distinctly fatalistic. Even though Lance can’t make out exactly what it is, a chill drops into the pit of his stomach. Because what if Matt’s right and everything goes wrong because of what Lance said? When Shiro blinks at Lance, he looks almost vacant—but then, a faint smile tugs at his lips.

“You like the _Vampire Nymphomaniacs_ series?”

“Wait a minute, _you_ like the _Vampire Nymphomaniacs_ series?”

“Uh, _yeah_ , absolutely?” Despite the bright notes in his voice, Shiro’s smile remains sort of gray and faded, like it’s trying to come through some vintage-looking photo filter. “They’re a perfect blend of weird adventures, cool monsters, and kinky smut. And the writing—”

“It’s _good_ , right?” Lance beams when he gets Shiro to nod again. “Everybody always wants to tell me that they’re dumb and I shouldn’t read them, but come on! They’re _so_ good, those books. I love them.”

“I’ve loved them since Obaasan—er, my and Ryou’s grandmother, that is? She gave me the first book in the series when I was, like, twelve—”

“She did _what_?” Squawking like somebody’s strangling an expensive imported parrot, Matt rolls his head over. Knowing him, he’s probably making a face like he might be sick. “First, Ryou tells us your grandfather made you drive his drunk ass to the ER—”

“Which he did do. Made for an interesting Thanksgiving—”

“And now, you’re telling me that your grandmother gave you porno books about outer space nymphomaniac vampires when you were _twelve_?”

Shiro shrugs, frowning like a disoriented puppy. “I mean, she read them with me, though? So she could, like, provide context and help me understand things more? It wasn’t like she threw me to the wolves. We had a little book club together. Dad didn’t always like it very much—he threw some _epically_ hissy tantrums over her giving me _Giovanni’s Room_ , _The Picture of Dorian Gray_ , _Interview with the Vampire_ , and _A Song of Ice and Fire_? He really didn’t like when we read Plath’s collected poems and Ted Hughes’s _Birthday Letters_ together, but _Confessions of A Mask_ was the one that _really_ got under his skin—”

“Okay, I only know a couple of those titles, but are you seriously sitting here, telling me—”

“That Obaasan always gave me good books to read because I was constantly bored at school and she loved me, so she didn’t want me to stagnate, whether intellectually or creatively? Yeah, Matthew, I am telling you this thing, exactly.”

“Wait, but, like?” With a soft, whiny sound, Hunk twists his hoodie’s drawstring around his fingers. “I had to read _Confessions of a Mask_ for a lit class, this semester? And it wasn’t really my taste personally, but I guess I get why it’s got staying power, but also, um?” Sinking in the booth, Hunk blurts out, “Isn’t that book, like, really, really, _really_ not the kinda something that you should give to _twelve-year-olds_?”

Brow knotted up, Shiro slouches onto his elbows. “I mean? Obaasan gave it to _me_ , so? I don’t really… Why d’you think it’s not really for twelve-year-olds?”

“What about the part where Kochan jerks off to the art of Saint Sebastian getting _martyred_ , though?”

“I mean, a lot of Sebastian’s iconography _is_ really erotic? He’s the unofficial patron saint of queer men for—well, not for a reason, exactly? But there’s a history? And Guido Reni’s Sebastians are, like?” As if he has these kinds of discussions all the time, Shiro explains, “He always paints Sebastian less like a martyr, more like God’s pet masochistic sub. So, I actually get why Kochan pleasures himself to that particular art, in Mishima-san’s novel.”

“ _Shiroooo_ ,” Matt whines. “Are you being intentionally thick, right now? ‘cause it kinda feels that way, man. Just—Hunk is _trying_ to say that books like that maybe might have content that twelve-year-olds can’t handle, actually.”

Unruffled, or definitely seeming that way, Shiro huffs. “Obaasan thought I could handle it. Also, his writing was part of my gay heritage _and_ my ethnocultural heritage, if you asked her. Like, yeah, she gave me…”

After a deep breath, Shiro counts on his fingers while rattling off a bunch of names that Lance mostly doesn’t recognize. “Oscar Wilde, James Baldwin, Tennessee Williams, Langston Hughes, Frank O’Hara, Walt Whitman, Federico García Lorca, André Gide, Arthur Rimbaud and Paul Verlaine, WH Auden, Gore Vidal, Truman Capote, Samuel Delany, Allen Ginsberg—though, uh, he and William S. Burroughs came with long rants? About how she didn’t want anyone calling me ignorant because I didn’t know them, but she also thought they were basically mediocre, misogynistic, culturally appropriating pederasts who didn’t deserve a place in the queer literary canon? So, she balanced them out with Audre Lorde, Gloria Anzaldúa, Cherríe Moraga, Leslie Feinberg, Michiyo Fukaya, and Djuna Barnes.”

“Please tell me you weren’t _twelve_ when she did that? The stuff with the Beatniks?”

“I can only do that if you want me to lie to you, Matt.” Regardless, Shiro shrugs and says, “Either way, those guys and all the others she gave me were fine? But then, Mishima-san was gay—or maybe bi, opinions vary— _and_ he was Japanese, so… She thought it was really important for me to read his work. She had similar ideas about Fukaya, since she was a lesbian _and_ Japanese-American, which is kinda different from being Japanese? Mishima was a good way to make sure I actually practiced the language, though.”

For want of anything to say, Lance offers, “My Meemaw always snuck me my copies of the _Harry Potter_ books when I was supposed to be grounded?”

“I like the sound of your Meemaw.” Shiro smiles like he means it, which definitely makes Lance’s heart flutter. “But also—and I really don’t mean any offense against your parents, I promise? But, uh, why would they ever ground you from reading books?”

“Oh, that’s…” Lance’s cheeks flush hot. “It was ‘cause I’d read them too much? And fall behind in school?”

“That still sounds weird, to me. And counterintuitive. I mean, at least you were reading.”

“I _know_ , right? That’s what Meemaw always said about it, too! ‘He’s interested in these books, just let him be interested.’”

“Exactly—and it’s probably not like you were missing _that_ much in school, right?”

“I sure didn’t think so. I mean, all my teachers ever wanted to do was yell at me for not doing the math problems _their_ way. Or not getting what they wanted me to get out of _The Scarlet Freaking Letter_ —and not explaining why, either!”

Something about that makes Shiro chuckle. Possibly, something to do with the way Lance yelps when he get excited. In the back of his mind, though, Lance hears Meemaw’s voice, chastising him for not being polite enough, now that Shiro’s gotten comfortable. She’d be right for that, too. Hoping that Shiro likes oatmeal raisin, Lance smiles and slides him the paper treat-carrier bag that has the last one in it.

Paling slightly, Shiro nudges his cookie back to the center of the table. “Thanks, but… I mean, that’s yours. I’d feel bad, taking it.”

“Dude, no, come on. You’re, like, a guest—”

“Lance, you don’t live here. How can Shiro be a guest?”

“Because he _is_ , Hunkules!” Pouting, Lance folds his hand like a duck-shaped shadow-puppet, then opens and closes his fingers in a gesture that begs Hunk to please hush his beautiful mouth and let Lance have this moment. He makes sure he’s smiling again before he tells Shiro, “Seriously, you’ve been here how long and I didn’t even _offer_? My Mom, my abuela, and my Meemaw would, like? Slap my wrist for totally forgetting my manners.”

“Oh. Uh. Well, I mean—I guess, I’d hate to get you in trouble? Or make them think you aren’t, I don’t know, living up to what they expect from you?” Taking a deeper breath than seems entirely necessary, Shiro lets a hand drop into one of his hoodie’s pockets. Yeah, his mouth trembles, trying to smile when Hunk pushes the cookie back his way, but at least Shiro doesn’t refuse, this time. “As far as school goes, though? You’re so right. It’s usually not teachers’ faults or anything? But the whole system is so prescriptivist. They don’t _teach_ you how to think; they tell you _what_ to think.”

“Right?! It’s so bad! And don’t you even _dare_ have ADHD because fuck you, that’s why.”

“Like, I get it, we have literary canons so we can develop common references and talk to each other better? And they help preserve some sense of who we are and where we came from, culturally? And some of the books they give you in high school aren’t _that_ bad—”

“Yeah, like, _The Great Gatsby_ was really fun for me. And Edgar Allan Poe. But _Things Fall Apart_ , _The Old Man And The Sea_ , and _The Giver_ were all _super_ -depressing. And I just didn’t get _Catcher in the Rye_ , like, at all?”

“You _definitely_ didn’t miss much with that one. JD Salinger is overrated. I could only get through reading _Catcher_ in tenth grade because Obaasan had already told me about this one academic conspiracy theory that says Holden Caulfield is gay and closeted.”

“Maybe, possibly, true, but!” Lance slaps his palms on the table. Thankfully, he doesn’t rattle things too badly. “We were talking about the alien you met with the double-dicks, though. What kind of dicks did he have? I’ve _got_ to know.”

“Oh, yeah, the two-dicked alien with the space-heroin.” Huffing softly, Shiro pushes a clump of hair back off his forehead. If it were anybody else—like, somebody significantly less cool—Lance would accuse him of having emo bangs. But since it’s Shiro, he’ll need another word. _Floof_ , maybe, since it always looks cute and fluffy in his videos, when lingering rainwater doesn’t make it droop over Shiro’s face. “For starters? We’re lucky that he didn’t have a knot hiding anywhere. Or that he didn’t let it out, maybe. Because if he had, I wouldn’t have made it here at all.”

“Mmm, you’d probably be up on his spaceship, taking it, right?”

“Definitely. But still, his top-dick had _really_ nice ridges. Like, I’m jealous of anyone who gets to have them stuck somewhere more sensitive than their mouth.”

“Oh, my God,” Matt groans quietly. “ _Always_ with the egregious alien dicks.”

With his lips puckered like he just sucked on a rotten lemon, Hunk gingerly pats Matt’s back. “At least they’re having fun?”

As if he hasn’t heard them, Shiro presses on, “Then, the lower dick that he had? It wasn’t _exactly_ a tentacle? It didn’t have any fun suckers, or smaller tentacles all over it, or anything like that. But it _was_ prehensile, so that was pretty neat.”

“Yeah, I bet. It’s too bad you’ll never see him again, right?” When Matt decides to slump on Hunk’s shoulder, Lance takes full advantage of the space freed up for him. Bouncing his foot, he leans closer to Shiro and props his chin up in his palm. “Or are you gonna see him again? You didn’t say, so—”

“Shiro,” Matt interjects, sounding like he could sleep for a thousand years. “What is taking your brother so goddamn long to get your coffee? You didn’t ask for anything complicated. Why isn’t he back yet?”

“The line was pretty decently sized, though? And maybe they had to make a new batch or something? Plus, it’s not like Ryou could stop me from talking to Lance about the very nice alien drug-dealer and his pair of very nice alien dicks.” Although this earns him a round of limp, wordless grousing from Matt and an uneasy, obviously forced smile from Hunk, Shiro looks back to Lance and chuckles. “Anyway, yeah, that is sad. I gave him my number, but he said he doesn’t swing around the Milky Way that often, so… Not really a reason for me to see him again.”

“Mmm, _que triste_ ,” Lance supposes. “You could’ve had a bad romance with him. Or a good one. Or just a lot of cool alien sex. So, what about the range of motion, though? On his one prehensile dick?”

“ _Complete_ range of motion, _and_ it was extendable. He used his dick to get space-condoms out of his back-pocket and everything. It was so cool, and like? What I wouldn’t give to have felt it in places other than my mouth, but? Since I was already running late.”

“Makes sense, yeah. And hey, we’re all just glad you made it, but if you’d wanted to go get some? If he’d invited you up to his spaceship for some fun? Totally fair, I would’ve understood.” Not that Lance wants to test himself about that notion, but he knows better than to outright say a thing like that to anyone, much less to _Shiro_. Never mind doing that when Shiro’s _here_ , and smiling, and talking to Lance as if he’s enjoying Lance’s company for realskis. If Lance is dreaming, then he never wants to wake up. But in case this is real, which it probably is, Lance needs to keep this good momentum going.

Putting on his patented Eager Grin #27, Lance prods the momentary silence with, “But seriously, though. Having a dick like that in your mouth has got to be a trip-and-a-half, right? If he can extend it, then that’s gotta be a quick way to gag the Hell out of some hapless, unsuspecting pretty boy.”

Of all the potential reactions, Shiro gives Lance one that he least expected: inhaling deeply, Shiro pushes back from the table. Slipping down in the booth, he drags his fingers through his hair again. He doesn’t freeze up, the way he did before, but he lets his head droop and his breaths seem shallow, like he’s struggling to get them in (and God, Lance hopes he’s seeing things, because he really, _really_ doesn’t want to be responsible for Shiro hyperventilating or getting sick or anything like that, especially not when meeting him for real is going so much better than Lance expected).

Rather than responding, Shiro slips a hand into his hoodie’s pocket. His knuckles press against the fabric as he squeezes something lumpy. Next thing Lance knows, Shiro has a plushie rabbit sitting in front of him.

Not a very big one, from the looks of her. Tilting his head, Lance peers at Shiro’s bunny, at the black thread that somebody crocheted into her body, the bright pink thread stitched into a makeshift nose and the baby blue eyes fashioned in a similar way. Much like Ryou’s purple scarf and Shiro’s black one, the bunny was probably made with love in every stitch. Still in silence, Shiro frets his long fingers down her chubby torso, then one of her arms. Even when he turns a gently, earnest expression back up to Lance, he fusses with one of her long ears, flopping it around without any discernible direction or purpose.

“Yeah, I… Sorry. For, uh. Getting us down on this—”

“No, dude, seriously, are you kidding?” Lance cringes at himself, but since he can’t take that outburst back, he adds, “This was fun, okay? I really liked it, you don’t have anything to be sorry for?”

Maybe Shiro’s _brother_ could stand to say he’s sorry for a lot of things. Hell, Lance would settle for hearing Ryou just _pretend_ he knows how to apologize. But all that Shiro’s done is show up late, look so thin that Lance can’t help how the word _“gaunt”_ groans in his head like a funeral dirge, and then indulge Lance in a weird conversation about all of the awesome, alien dicks they’ll never get to slut it up with. He hasn’t screwed up big time, not as far as Lance knows, so what in the ever-expanding, llama-licking, double-cheese and triple-pickled mind of creation could Shiro possibly need to apologize for? Why would he even feel like he _needs_ to say he’s sorry?

Not for nothing, but it might be a miracle that Shiro made it here in the first place. Trying to give him a reassuring smile, Lance struggles to make his face behave, because the more he takes in the details of how Shiro looks, the more Lance wonders what in the Hell Matt meant, exactly, when he said that Shiro’s spent the past few months sick and going to bad places. Dangerously similar to bruises, deep, sleepless rings lurk beneath his perfect eyes and their grave, repentant twinkling. Between those and how tight his skin’s drawn around his cheekbones, Shiro seems like he could nod off or pass out at any moment. It wouldn’t surprise Lance if Shiro hasn’t slept all week.

Which could be worse, as far as pessimistic thoughts go—but still: you don’t say that kind of thing to somebody. Especially not during a first meeting, or when they’re fussing with a plush toy bunny while out in public, or if their eyes glisten like they could start crying while they’re watching you because, in all apparent likelihood, they’re going through more Serious Shit than they want to let on. Shiro mentioned Ulaz earlier, too; Lance definitely heard Shiro say that he’d been around Ulaz’s office. Assuming Shiro went there for therapy, there’s probably a real good reason why he doesn’t want to shove anybody’s face in exactly what he’s dealing with.

Clues rear their heads, now what Lance thinks about it, though. Shiro might have more clothes to him than body at the moment, because he really is that skinny. He tried to turn down an oatmeal raisin cookie as soon as Lance offered it. He relented for the sake of politeness, more than anything else. He might’ve been at therapy before he got here, and now, something about the idea of gagging on dick has made Shiro go graveyard quiet.

God, now would make a great time for Lance to bust out something brilliant and emotionally poignant that puts Shiro’s mind entirely at ease. If nothing else, he needs to say something so his mouth won’t get in its own groove and betray him. But as Lance struggled to get his mind around the words that he might want, Shiro sighs loudly enough to derail Lance’s train of thought.

“Yeah, no, I—I’ve enjoyed that talk, too. It’s a good talk,” Shiro says, rolling his fingers over his plush bunny’s ear. “I just meant that I’m sorry? For running late like I did? And, uh. There wasn’t actually any— _obviously_ there weren’t any alien drug-dealers, how could there be, we haven’t even made first contact, but like—but then, it’s all…”

Squeezing his bunny’s torso, Shiro slips lower in the booth. Faintly, there comes a _thump!_ like a sneaker colliding with the thick metal pole holding up their table. “Session with Ulaz—he being my therapist—it ran a little over. Then, he gave me a prescription, and I wanted to stop and get it filled, y’know? Before I did something stupid like… never actually filling it or taking the meds, which is still kinda…” Shiro heaves a sigh that makes him sink down even more. “Then, something got snagged with my insurance, which is just like, ‘Wow. Thanks. I need this like I need a hole in my head.’”

Matt winces like somebody’s smacked him with an encyclopedia. “Yikes, man, that’s really kinda—like, that’s so—okay, seriously, _yikes_ —Shiro, I—”

“Yeah, ‘yikes’ was a pretty good word for it. And when I _finally_ got onto someone’s wifi—”

“I mean the thing you said about your _head!_ And having holes in it! And all of that, like—”

“I said that I _don’t_ need a hole in my head, though.” Burrowing against the cushion, Shiro adds, “Anyway, it’s better than holes in the cliff-sides of Amigara Fault.”

“Okay, yeah, _true_ , but…” Hunk tries to mask his whining with a cough. Too bad it sounds faker than his asshole cousin’s nose-job, because Hunk’s heart, as ever, is firmly in the right place. “It’s whatever, man. All of that, it’s like—sometimes, things just go that way, yeah? We all do what we need to. And I mean, when Ulaz hands you a prescription…”

When Shiro wrinkles his nose, Hunk waves a hand at himself and Lance. “He’s our therapist, too. And I think Matt’s sister…?”

“Yeah, Shiro knows about me and Katie seeing Ulaz.” Matt tries to smile, but only ends up cringing. Pale, exhausted, and probably trying his best, he fidgets with the hem of his t-shirt. “He got the, uh—after Shiro moved out here, he kinda—”

“You guys know the LGBTQ community center, over on Spring Street? Miranda, she—I don’t know her last name? But she works there—she, like—she’s kind of…” Leaving one hand around his bunny, Shiro gestures around his chest, his shoulders, the region where he should theoretically have some kind of stomach. As he grabs at thin air and the words he wants, a few false starts trip out of Shiro’s mouth. Through them all, Lance thinks he can make out, _“hefty,” “heavyset,” “broad,”_ and, _“round.”_

He frowns, but keeps his mouth shut. What thoughts crop up, Lance banishes them; there’s no way any of them merit consideration. Sure, Shiro’s collarbone sticks out even more than Lance’s does, when you look closely at the gaping necklines of Shiro’s t-shirts. But that doesn’t mean he’s like the assholes from high school who used to torment Hunk about his weight. It doesn’t even mean that Shiro’s like Tío Diego, Lance’s one uncle on Mom’s side of the family, who takes pride in being skinny like Lance is skinny, and always insults Hunk right in front of him, as though Spanish is some triple-encrypted code language, mostly died out and known only to an exclusive handful of experts from top Ivy League schools, Stanford, Cambridge, and some super-secret enclave in the Vatican.

As his thoughts all rush around his skull, sweeping themselves up in each other like Dorothy Gale’s tornado trip to Oz, Lance blinks down at the oatmeal raisin cookie. Shiro’s broken off a couple pieces, but they’re still resting on the carrier-bag, surrounded by their crumbs. Lance doesn’t remember any morsels going into Shiro’s mouth, either. He hasn’t picked any of them up or made like he intends to eat them, unless Lance hasn’t paid close enough attention to Shiro while they’ve been talking.

Plus, Shiro’s so thin that Lance almost feels chunky, sitting so close to him in real life. No, it’s not surprising, but he doesn’t look _quite_ this twiggy in any of his videos, not even the ones where he looks sick. If Shiro ever met Mami, she’d actually be right in saying he’s too skinny, the way she does with literally everybody, even when they’re in the same physical size ballpark as Ryou, Hunk, and Lance’s cousin Naldo.

Then, there’s the way Matt asked Lance not to ask Shiro about his favorite kind of ice cream, but _wasn’t at liberty_ to tell Lance why. Now, Shiro could just call Miranda from the community center, _“fat,”_ mostly because she _is_ fat, and she calls herself fat all the time. Once, this past spring, she told Lance and the entire art class that _“fat”_ isn’t a dirty word or an insult, and that she prefers trying to destigmatize it—but even though Shiro’s met her, he’s grasping at vocabulistic straws instead of saying that Miranda’s _fat_.

Which _could_ be like Naldo’s brother, cousin Neto, when he talks himself into a corner and throws out all kinds of euphemisms about his brother’s weight in front of everybody, as if calling Naldo _“husky”_ or _“fluffy”_ magically makes what Neto’s doing any nicer—except for how Shiro doesn’t _seem_ anything like Neto. Brow knotted up, Shiro cringes at all of his false starts. As he stumbles on all these softer synonyms for _“fat,”_ his expression gets a guilty sheen and he looks as if he might be sick.

There’s something deeper going on. Lance can feel it in his bones, for all he only has ideas about what the something maybe is—but should he _say_ anything about it? Maybe _not_? Would running his mouth off _help_? Would it be impolite for a first meeting? Would it make Shiro decide that Ryou’s right about Lance, even though he doesn’t know about the stunt his brother pulled, and then regret coming to this meeting, regret covering that Gotye song, regret reading all of Lance’s old comments on his videos, regret every single time that he’s replied to them, because he’ll see that Lance is nothing, definitely not someone worth wasting time on—

“Look, I’m trying to say this delicately? And as non-hurtfully as possible?” Mercifully dragging Lance out of his own thoughts, Shiro finally manages to tell them, “Miranda is—not that I mean, like—not in a _bad_ way, just like—she’s kind of a big woman? Lots of bright colors, and floral prints, and flowy blouses? So many bracelets and plastic bangles, you’d think she slit her wrists last weekend and needs to hide the bandages?”

“That… I…” Hunk winces. “That… sure is an interesting way to put it? Uh, about Miranda’s jewelry, I mean?”

Although Hunk purses his lips like there’s something else on his mind, he says nothing about Miranda’s preferences about describing herself and her body. Lance twists his foot around the floor, the words like fire on his tongue— _“You can seriously just call her, ‘fat,’ y’know? Miranda would rather have people do that”_ —but he chokes them down. For one thing, Shiro might already know about Miranda’s thoughts on this, but have reasons why he’s struggling to get that one specific word out.

For another, he only looks at the oatmeal raisin cookie as he breaks off another piece—but he hunches his shoulders as he brings it to his mouth. Chewing silently, he ducks his chin, stares at the table, and curls one beanstalk leg up to his chest. When he swallows, Shiro’s fingers cling to his bunny’s arm like he wishes he were holding his brother’s hand instead.

Upon reflection, _“Shiro is going through some Serious Shit”_ might be an understatement.

“Anyway,” he sighs as Lance tries to make his foot stop tapping. “Miranda helped with my therapist search. Ulaz was one of the first names she suggested. Definitely the first one I liked the sound of. Then, I was talking about it with Matt and Ryou, and Matt said that Ulaz has really helped him and Katie, so…”

“Makes perfect sense,” Lance says to Shiro’s shrugging shoulders—and now, they need to get off that subject. Lance goes for the first thing that comes to mind: “Who’s your little friend? The cute, plushie one? With the ears?”

“Oh, uh. This is Usa-chan.” Shiro blushes when Lance makes a grabby gesture and asks if he can see her. Despite that, he does let Lance hold her soft, stuffed body and look her over. “She, uh? She was a gift. When I was a kid. My aunt’s wife—I mean, they weren’t married yet, this was like 1994, but still, Naoko was always, _‘Aunt Satomi’s wife’_ to me? But she’s really crafty? In that she likes making things? So, she made me Usa-chan, and she’s special to me, and Ulaz was—my session with him, that is—it was rough today?”

“She’s beautiful. Makes me wish I hadn’t left any of my little friends at home. I’ve got a lot of them, but?” Gently squeezing one of her ears, Lance smiles at Shiro like he means it, because conveniently, he does. “Nobody homemade. Which is really nice, like? She’s special in general, y’know? Because she’s made with love?”

That gets Shiro smiling again, for all he looks tired and still kinda green around the gills. Maybe he’s got more on his mind. Maybe, under the relief, he’s teeming with so many things that he could say.

Instead, the most oversized cup of coffee gets set down before him.

“Sorry about the wait, _niichan_.” Sighing heavily, Ryou takes his seat again. “The line was bananas, and of course, the person ahead of me got the last cup of the brew you wanted. Then, my latte got mixed up with someone else’s, but they ran out with mine, and—”

“Ryou?” Shiro says softly, letting his face slip into a too-innocent smile. “You’re like an angel with no wings.”

Ryou snorts and claps back, “So, like a person?”

“Oh, my _God_ ,” Matt groans, dragging his hands down his face. “Yes, please, Jesus, no more accidentally poignant babbling about education, dead grandmas, and weird-ass alien dicks. Can we _please_ just talk about fucking _Parks and Rec_.”

  


* * *

  


One thing that Shiro can say for The Daily Grind with absolute certainty: they brew a damn good coffee.

By the time Ryou excuses himself to the men’s room, though, Shiro’s running low on said drink. He almost considers asking Ryou to get him another—but they’re gonna need to scare up dinner, at some point. Truth told, Ryou likely wishes that they’d left for that already. He’s probably only given Shiro any leeway for two reasons. First, because Shiro’s hitting it off well with Lance, and to a lesser extent with Hunk (though he’s been quieter, so it’s a little harder to tell overall).

Second, and more importantly, Shiro’s picked his way through half of Lance’s oatmeal raisin cookie. Not that this should be an accomplishment, since normal people could easily do that without taking as long as Shiro has and without looking over their shoulders, off toward the restrooms, dimly wishing that they had a toothbrush with them because keeping this cookie down makes their skin crawl something awful. But trying to protest about this, and trying to insist that there’s nothing worth celebrating in the fact that he isn’t running off to make himself throw up, would only make Ryou worry.

If Shiro handed him another reason to worry about him—if he handed his brother this specific reason to worry—then Ryou would remind him about how Ulaz and Miranda have both told him not to dismiss his little victories, no matter how insignificant Shiro feels that they should be.

Shiro’s toying with another broken-off bit of cookie when Lance clears his throat and mewls Shiro’s name. His blue eyes have gone all wide again, but nervously, this time. Fidgeting with his green jacket’s zipper, Lance rubs his lips together. He murmurs something, and guilt writhes in Shiro’s chest when he needs Lance to repeat it. Clearly, the poor guy’s having trouble getting this out, probably because it means a lot to him, but Shiro can’t respond if he can’t hear what Lance is saying.

“I just… I don’t wanna put you off, or act like a total creepy fanboy, or anything?” Rubbing at the back of his neck, Lance lets a whiny sound slip out. His face spells out every ounce of strain that he puts into looking Shiro in the eye. “But, you—your music, I mean? It’s so… I don’t know what you think, or how you feel about it, or anything—not really—I only know what’s in the videos, but, like?”

Swallowing thickly, Lance rests on his elbows, leans forward so Matt and Hunk can’t obstruct his and Shiro’s ability to look at each other in full. “You have a lot of them? Where you’re like, ‘I know this isn’t much’ or, ‘This cover isn’t very good’—”

“Yeah, I don’t really—it isn’t like I’m—I’m not trying to beg for attention, or any of what people say in the comments—”

“Duh, obviously, you aren’t? Anybody who’d think that about you is just, like—don’t listen to them, okay, they’ve got no freaking idea—how could they even _think_ …” With a heavy sigh, Lance shakes his head. His eyes don’t entirely mist over, but they get dewy and he fixes Shiro with an expression so earnest, it makes a twinge of pain flare up in Shiro’s chest.

“You’re okay,” Shiro offers, for want of anything he can say, to keep the dead air banished.

“I just wanted to say, your music is _so. good._ Okay?” Although he still isn’t crying, Lance looks like he could start, if Shiro gets the answer wrong. “Like, your voice is beautiful, and the way you play? It makes _me_ want to work harder on my own guitar? And of course, I love your covers—especially the one that you did for me—but your original songs? They all sound _so_ beautiful, I mean, the way you write lyrics? It makes me wish I could, y’know?”

“You can write lyrics, if you want to. And you _should_ , Lance. You should at least try, instead of keeping whatever you feel pent up inside you.” Which sounds like such a canned, generic reassurance. Shiro can do better—if Lance knows his original songs so well, then surely, he must expect Shiro to give him better—but when he tries to go on, all Shiro can come up with is, “Uh, but, I—I don’t want to—this is just a, ‘Real name vs. online name’ thing, but I… Which cover did I do for you?”

Lance pouts at him—but concernedly, like he’s upset for Shiro’s sake. “The last one that you posted? Back in September? I—you did the ‘Somebody That I Used To Know’ cover, and I asked for it, after I got dumped, and the way you played the song was _perfect_ …”

He keeps going, spluttering out how much he loves that cover, how much he loved it at the time and how much he still does.

Tracing one finger down Usa-chan’s tummy, Shiro remembers recording that song, in the Wisconsin motel where he and Mark hid out after Shiro ran from Haxus and Maurice’s townhouse. While they waited for Aunt Satomi, Kira, and their van, Shiro made Mark and Ryou help him rearrange the furniture so he could set his laptop up. No one needed him to post anything, but he hadn’t done so since before Maurice moved him uptown. Shiro _wanted_ to get new music out there, even if he couldn’t post it himself. He made Ryou do it for him, and only after he’d checked in to rehab.

If Maurice were paying attention to Shiro’s channel, then at least Ryou could handle the messages he might’ve sent. As far as Shiro’s seen, there weren’t any. Ryou took care of backing up Shiro’s email for him, and switching him to a new account, and deactivating Shiro’s Facebook account, his Twitter and his Tumblr, the Instagram he almost never used anyway. Maybe they couldn’t delete Shiro from the Internet entirely—not least since he didn’t want to take his Youtube down, in case someone needed his music like he’s needed George Michael’s and John Darnielle’s, and just in case Keith might still be listening—but Ryou knew the steps to take.

The fact that Maurice hasn’t tried anything, as far as Shiro knows, provides some small comfort. No, it isn’t fair, the way Maurice gets to easily move on from him, while Shiro still checks the windows every night and might never get away from Maurice, not really. But at least there’s a chance that Maurice simply doesn’t care enough to come hunt Shiro down.

Unfortunately, none of this helps Shiro reply to Lance.

Double-unfortunately, all that he initially comes up with is, “…You’re Blue-Sharpshooter?”

It comes out thickly, as if Shiro’s got something stuck in his throat. But Lance nods, and looks like he’s hanging on every word that Shiro says.

“You… I know I didn’t always get back to your comments, but?” Sighing softly, Shiro drags his fingers through his hair. He needs to make up his mind about growing it out or getting it cut, because right now, it’s at exactly the right length to annoy him and do little else. He’ll handle that later, though. For now, he tries to smile at Lance. “I meant what I said, in that video? The support—I appreciate, like—it means a lot, y’know? And I don’t know what you meant with leaving them, or anything? But…”

Shiro swallows thickly, and makes himself look Lance in the eye. “All your comments, they… They helped get me through a lot of—I mean, through some really difficult stuff I’ve been dealing with? Lately, yeah. But for a while now, too. And I don’t wanna sound creepy? But I did reread everything you said. Quite a lot, actually.”

“I don’t think it’s creepy. As long as you don’t think it’s creepy, how many times I’ve listened to, uh—I don’t remember its name? But the one song of yours. The original that you wrote for somebody who doesn’t know how special he is.” If Lance can tell that Shiro’s choking up at that comment—specifically, over remembering one of the many songs he ever wrote for Keith—then it doesn’t show in his beaming, pointy face. “I love that one, okay? It’s so raw, and sweet, and beautiful. Whoever you wrote it for? He’s _so_ lucky.”

Lance is right on that count, though probably not for the reasons that he thinks. But telling him so—explaining how Keith’s lucky because he got away before Shiro could drag him to Hell and ruin his life entirely—that’d probably make things awkward. And painful. And it might make Shiro cry for the umpteenth time today, which he’d rather not endure.

Once Shiro agrees that Lance’s appreciation for his music doesn’t sound creepy, Lance grins. “But, y’know, for what it’s worth? I’m glad I could help _you_ get through some rough stuff, too. ‘Cause that’s what your music did, for me.”

Shiro’s cheeks flush and he musses a hand over his hair. “There’s—that means a lot, too? I mean, that’s… Every musician wants to hear something like that, I think? Knowing that your work reaches somebody… Moves them… Helps them…”

While Lance babbles, sounding flustered and like he doesn’t completely know what he thinks he’s on about, Shiro casts a glance over toward the men’s room. No sign of Ryou over there. Next, Shiro looks around the coffee-shop’s main area, over at the line. No brother there, either. Fumbling in his pocket, Shiro huffs. The hour grows late and he can’t afford to wait much longer. Whenever Ryou gets back, he’s gonna want to pack up and drag Shiro off, first to get dinner and then to babysit him so he can’t go purge.

It’s a fair enough routine for them, as much as Shiro hates it. He can’t begrudge Ryou that protectiveness any more than he can stand the idea of keeping in touch with Lance by using Matt as their go-between and perpetual middleman. They haven’t even tried it yet, but the idea’s already exhausting.

“And I really don’t wanna push or anything,” Lance goes on, while Shiro digs through all his pockets. “But, like? If you ever, really? Not that you have to, if you don’t want? Because I get it, you’re going through a lot of stuff right now? I mean, not that I know what it _is_ , or why you’re like, or anything—”

“Wanna know what I’m going through?” Shiro chuckles grimly, finally getting a hand around the prize he wants. “I quit drinking. That’s most of what I’m going through. Like, eighty-five, ninety percent majority.”

Not the most accurate of estimates, but it’s not like Hunk or Lance or even Matt can call Shiro out on that. Either way, the silence crashes into their table, dull and awkward, heavier than dark matter and thick enough to choke a bear. When Shiro sends his unlocked phone zipping over to Lance, its protective plastic case scrapes against the table’s surface, so loud that it makes nails on a chalkboard seem downright preferable. Lance starts to say something, then cuts himself off, frowning down at the phone before him like he’s never seen one in his life.

“Put your number in there for me? If you want to, anyway.” Looking at him seriously, Shiro says, “I like you, Lance. Ryou’s probably gonna be ready for dinner, when he gets back, and he’ll need to go home so he can get ready for class tomorrow. But I’d like to get together again. Easier to do that if I can just text you myself, right? Instead of making Matt keep track of things for us.”

“ _Matt_ would appreciate that, too, if you guys don’t mind,” Matt drawls, rolling his eyes. “Think I’ve created a monster, putting you two together—”

“Oh, you have,” says Hunk. “No question about that whatsoever—”

“So, consider this my Dr. Frankenstein moment, washing my hands and relinquishing all future responsibility for you two, and your hijinks, and whatever you wanna say about the alien dicks you fantasize about. Or about all of the things that you want to do sexually with Loki Fucking Laufeyson.”

“You want to bend Jon Snow over and go to town on him, Matthew. At least Loki’s got a more interesting personality.” With a huff and a wave in Matt’s direction, Shiro gives Lance a small, hopeful smile. “So, what d’you say? Wanna do this again, sometime?”

Eyes glimmering with the barely contained, sparkling energy of a firecracker, Lance nods. He fumbles the phone once, then twice. On the third time, he finally gets it right, keying his number in and saving a new name in Shiro’s contacts. Then, unbidden, he poses for a selfie—a simple one; he grins and holds up two fingers in a peace sign—which he saves as his picture.

Shiro’s typing out a text, so Lance can get his number in return, when a new phone knocks against his elbow.

“I need you to get a selfie, too.” Lance bounces eagerly. “That’s what friends do, right?”

In Shiro’s experience, that isn’t really true—but he’s in no position to argue with the offer of a new friend. Not unless he fancies staying lonesome, and he absolutely doesn’t. Setting Usa-chan on his shoulder like a pirate’s pet parrot, Shiro makes himself try to look like something approximating happy. Like someone who wouldn’t know a thing about _normal_ if it bit him on the nose, but who tries to function anyway. Like somebody who Lance would actually _want_ to call a friend. Once he’s snapped a few shots, Shiro pushes the phone back across the table.

“Not that I object to you picking your picture, because I don’t? But I’d feel weird, making choices about how things look when it’s your phone,” he lies.

Nominally, friends shouldn’t do that—shouldn’t deliberately bullshit each other, the way Shiro’s doing now—but he _can’t_ tell Lance the whole truth about that situation, not today. Not when Ryou’s going to ask about it too, and Shiro owes his brother some peace of mind, not least because Ryou heard him purge this morning. Maybe later, Shiro will get through telling Lance that he goes back and forth on pictures of himself, unable to decide if he hates them or loves them, because every time that Shiro feels like he looks half-decent, somebody decides to disagree and tell him he looks sick.

What he can do, instead, is just keep smiling. He can look Lance in the eye, and smile exactly like Mom told him to do when things felt horrible—she always brought out a Charlie Chaplin song for that lesson, _“Smile, though your heart is breaking. Smile, even though it’s aching”_ —and try to tell himself that the _Casablanca_ reference teetering around his skull doesn’t ache, doesn’t twist like a knife in the pit of his chest, and doesn’t make him think of Keith.

“I’m really glad I met you,” Shiro says, meaning every word. “Lance, I think this is the beginning of a beautiful friendship.”

**Author's Note:**

> As ever, I’m also on Tumblr ( **[amorremanet](http://amorremanet.tumblr.com/)** ), Pillowfort ( **[amorremanet](https://www.pillowfort.io/amorremanet)** ), Dreamwidth ( **[amor_remanet](http://amor-remanet.dreamwidth.org/)** ), Twitter ( **[amorremanet](https://twitter.com/amorremanet/)** ), and Discord ( **amorremanet#5500** ), and I always love talking about Shiro, hurt/comfort, gay shit, and Shiro.


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